Strangled in a Net of Lies
by Trance GimmeCat
Summary: “There is a trollop in the air. A trollop who divests my husband of his marriage vows, then attempts to cleanse her damned soul in the fruity balm of lemon.” Established Crono/Marle (married), possible later Magus/Lucca. Lots of random property damage
1. Chapter 1

Strangled in a Net of Lies  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone from Chrono Trigger (although I'd like to find out where I can rent Crono for the weekend ::evil grin::). They are all property of Squaresoft, except for Isaac and Ariana, who I created.  
  
  
  
Summary: "There is a trollop in the air." A trollop who divests my husband of his marriage vows, then attempts to cleanse her damned soul in the fruity balm of lemon." - 'Feng Shui Junkie,' Brian Gallagher. Established Crono/Marle (married), and possible later Magus/Lucca (I'm not as much of a 'shipper as Rhianwen is ^_^)  
  
  
  
Very Important Author's Notes - Please Read!  
  
  
  
This was not originally my story. My friend Rhianwen started it (that's why you're probably right if you could absolutely SWEAR that you've read this before), and decided after the first chapter that she hated it and didn't want to work on it anymore. She has given it to me to finish out of fear that I wouldn't quit pestering her until she churned out another bit just for me (wise girl - I wouldn't have ^_^).  
  
It's based loosely in theme and style on 'Feng Shui Junkie,' by Brian Gallagher.  
  
Since taking it over, I have changed a few things. Mainly, I invented a character to be Lucca's husband (Isaac), who is basically acting as an evil guy, 'blame all the problems of the universe on him' sort of character. I thought it really was too gutsy of a move on Rhianwen's part to make it Crono. I'm sure she would have explained it more in later chapters, and probably pulled it off pretty good, but I don't think I can do that. So Crono and Marle now have 'watching from the sidelines'/supportive friends type roles.  
  
Anyway, I'm trying to emulate the writing style my friend used, so it doesn't seem disjointed, and the first chapter is mostly hers with my changes. The second chapter is mine, though. Let me know how I do, okay?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Spring is in the air.  
  
This is the first thought that crosses my mind when I walk into the cute, modest, perfectly typical little home of my husband, Isaac Lesley and I, in the quiet, unassuming little village of Truce. An exceedingly odd thing, as we are in the middle of October.  
  
Actually, I amend to myself, sniffing again at the air in the front hall as I hang my jacket carelessly over the coat-rack, it doesn't smell exactly like spring. The freshness in the air is missing, the smell of the dew sprinkled over everything that one can enjoy if one simply makes the effort to get out of bed early enough - which I, virtuous soul that I am, have done all of twice in my entire twenty-four years on the planet. No, this smell is like a bottled - well bottled, but bottled nonetheless - simile of the thick scent of flowers in full bloom, with just a hint of fresh fruit in there somewhere.  
  
Now, as I've said, this might pass as completely ordinary, if it were a mild, sunny afternoon in the middle of May, if we had left the back door open on our beautiful, well-kept garden for the scent to waft in and drive out the fumes of motor oil that are so very inevitable when a person is living with me.  
  
It isn't the middle of May, though. As I've already mentioned, it's the middle of October. Not a lot of flowers in bloom right now.  
  
Not only that, Isaac and I don't have a bloody garden.  
  
No, there is definitely something odd going on right now. A few possibilities are crowding themselves into my mind, sending chilling trails down my spine like a melting block of ice.  
  
One is that my husband has taken to wearing perfume.  
  
It shouldn't be hard to understand why I would just as soon this didn't happen.  
  
The second one...doesn't even bear thinking about. It's just...well, stupid! Isaac is caring, considerate, wonderful, and most of all, a dreadful liar, and he knows it. The idea of him carrying on with some female is like...  
  
This thought trails off abruptly as I take an unexpected trip, much shorter than the one I've just returned from - a day early, I recall as horrifyingly, fragments of the situation drop into my hands - to the hard, wooden floor.  
  
Peeling myself off of the rough boards, I glare at the cause of this trip, all the more ferociously now that I realize exactly what it is.  
  
A boot.  
  
Now, I know what you're thinking: 'Lucca, silly girl, men do wear boots, too, you know.'  
  
And I agree with you.  
  
But not of a fashionably sleek design, made from glossy black patent leather with a three-inch heel, tapered gently into a fine point that I suddenly feel the urge to drive through someone's forehead.  
  
Not unless they're Flea.  
  
As this thought descends upon me most unexpectedly, I burst into a wild fit of giggles for reasons that I'm not even gonna TRY to understand. Come on! I've just returned from a three-day supply run to Porre with my father, come home to my loving husband only to find the house smelling of floral perfume, and littered with women's footwear, and I'm supposed to be RATIONAL?  
  
Eheh...not happening.  
  
Then, as quickly as it descends, my mirth evaporates into a brisk sort of business-like cool that suits me much better, and I climb to my feet, brushing little flecks of dust from my front. As an encore, I hurl the boot out our kitchen window.  
  
Hrm...maybe I should have opened it first.  
  
Ah, well, worry about that later. I have sleuthing to do. From the lack of a frantic flurry of motion upstairs, I can conclude that I am currently alone in the house.  
  
Excellent. This provides me all the time I need to investigate.  
  
I start with the kitchen. Nothing terribly untoward occurring there, aside from the fact that the window is broken and there's a boot lying in the garden.  
  
Hey, shit happens, right?  
  
Upon closer inspection, I notice that there isn't a single dirty dish in the sink. Not a problem, unless one is familiar with Isaac's housekeeping habits. Or mine, for that matter. I doubt that my dear husband has gone on a three-day fast, or lived solely on the cookies that his mother brought on her last visit from out west, kindly old soul that she is - he's far too fastidious to do anything that much fun - and so it isn't surprising that this irks me slightly.  
  
Still, though, one mustn't jump to conclusions.  
  
The living room. Perfectly tidy. Now, this is a little more ordinary, as Isaac doesn't tend to spend his time in here unless we have company, and I've forced him to.  
  
Ooh...but what's this? I stoop slightly to pick up the paperback lying on one of our heavy, sturdy wooden end tables.  
  
"'150 Favourite Love Poems,'" I read aloud slowly.  
  
Then, very calmly and deliberately, I hold the book out in front of me with both hands, grasping a corner gingerly with each hand, and then, completely sober and utterly without guilt, I wrench the book into two jagged pieces.  
  
I think I could come to enjoy the sound of paper ripping.  
  
Ah! But I have more exploring to do.  
  
The two pieces of the former poetry book join the boot in the backyard, and I move my examination of our home to the upper floor.  
  
As I ascend the steps, the fruity floral springy scent grows stronger. Gagging slightly, I start slowly toward our bedroom, but come instinctively to a halt outside the closed door. Gods, I can't...I think I should start small. I open the door to the left of our bedroom...  
  
...and nearly laugh with relief as I step into our neatly, but plainly decorated guest room to see a suitcase and a variety of smaller pieces of luggage neatly organized on the floor of the room, next to the double bed covered by its quilt of blue and white.  
  
A guest! An unexpected guest dropped by, and of course, he had to put her somewhere to sleep! Alright. Okay. Suddenly, there is a weight lifted from my shoulders, and as I turn to leave, I feel almost giddy.  
  
Until one last thing hits me.  
  
Why has the bed not been slept in?  
  
Certainly, if there had been time for our entire house to begin smelling of this mysterious female's perfume, she has to have been here at least one night.  
  
She could have made the bed this morning, of course, but the sheets are still as fresh and neatly pressed as the last time that Mother was over and insisted upon doing it.  
  
This bed has obviously not been slept in since then.  
  
As a hand of freezing stone tightens around my stomach, I leave the guest room and slowly open the door to our bedroom.  
  
I am not exactly sure what I expect to find.  
  
Isaac...  
  
Some gorgeous blonde...  
  
Ozzie...  
  
The devil himself...  
  
Or perhaps all four, engaging in group sex.  
  
What I see is just as bad as anything I could have come up with.  
  
The bed is mussed in a way that I am all too familiar with. One would have to be an awfully restless sleeper to have torn ALL the blankets from the bed on ones own.  
  
Not only that, but I would still like to defend my husband from any claims that he might be experimenting with cross-dressing, and hazard that the filmy, pink, nearly transparent nightie on the pillow does not belong to him.  
  
Not only that, but the long blonde hairs clinging to the nightie certainly aren't his. His hair is as dark as...the hair of someone whose hair is really dark. Hey, I'm no damn poet, okay?  
  
So.  
  
There IS a woman. My, my, my. I suppose this has to do with the idea that eavesdroppers never hear anything pleasant of themselves. By the same token, I suppose that wives who return from their trips a day early are just asking to find their homes and beds littered with the belongings of other women.  
  
After recovering from the shock of the bed, I take a quick peek through our closet. Several garments have been added.  
  
A long red sundress that I've never seen before.  
  
A cute little black skirt and red sweater are also new to me.  
  
And as for the skimpy lacy bright red knickers and matching brassiere laid across the cushion of our rocking chair, making the understated room of blues and greens and greys look faded by contrast, I KNOW I have never seen them before.  
  
Geez. Apparently, this girl has no taste. Completely garish. Just the sort of thing that men with no scruples have fantasies about seeing women in...and soon after, out of.  
  
Is Isaac really just another man with no scruples?  
  
Next order of business.  
  
Who the hell is she?  
  
With a strength born of great purpose, I pull myself from my position crouched weakly against the wall, and stride confidently back into the guestroom.  
  
My first move is to investigate the tags on her luggage. Ariana Harland, they read.  
  
What a pretty name, I would have thought if I wasn't seeing red (I am well aware of the opportunity for a pun on the colour of the underwear being red...) and foaming at the mouth by this point.  
  
Completely disregarding all the nice things that my mother has always taught me about going through someone else's belongings being bad manners, I yank open the zipper of what looks like a large red leather purse, and tug out the first item that my fingers manage to close around.  
  
A nutrition guide. Well, it's good to know that this Ariana girl is properly keeping her strength up for the strenuous task of bonking my husband. Hmm...do I want to know?  
  
Finally, I decide that I do.  
  
I open the little booklet, and my eyebrows shoot straight up into my hairline as the words 'Female - 28 years' flash before my eyes.  
  
Twenty-eight, huh? So, he likes older women for fun. How very interesting.  
  
The next line nearly makes me vomit.  
  
'Height class: 5-foot 8. Weight class: 105 lbs.'  
  
This nausea is not caused by my utterly unbearable envy of this girl's apparently fantastic figure, as I'm sure you're all thinking right now. But come on! 5-foot 8, and 105 pounds? She must be a skeleton!  
  
Hmph. He likes them older and taller. At five-foot six, I've never considered myself terribly petite, but this girl's almost his height! I remember something that serves only to grind the knife in just a little bit harder: he's always bemoaned the fact that I'm a couple inches too short to make some kinky use or other of the headboard in our bedroom. I always assumed that he was joking.  
  
Silly me.  
  
Carefully shredding the nutrition guide into ribbons, I bend down to paw through the red leather purse again. This time, I yank out a make-up bag. Eh, make-up's always bored me.  
  
I decisively climb to my feet and hurl the make-up case out the window and into the back yard of our next-door neighbours. The next moment, the shriek of an angry cat echoes through the area.  
  
Sorry, Jelly. These are extenuating circumstances, you know.  
  
It is at this point that I notice the diamond ring glittering merrily at me from the dresser of our guest room.  
  
Now, WHAT is THIS? Could it be that I am not the only one being screwed over by those two screwing? This certainly LOOKS like an engagement ring, a gold band with a cluster of tiny diamonds set into the gold. And the simple, yet lovely and tasteful gold band engraved with the words, 'To a lifetime of love and happiness' certainly LOOKS like a wedding band.  
  
The poor bastard. A lifetime ended a lot sooner than I'm sure he predicted it would.  
  
  
  
  
  
Well. Now that the facts have been established, it's time to act. This mysterious Ariana Harland is going to experience the full wrath of Lucca Ashtear-Lesley. Truly an astounding sight to behold, and one that only a handful of people have seen, including my parents and Crono, the poor guy. I have been told by him, though, that the full wrath of Marle is awfully impressive, too.  
  
Hah! No one can equal me!  
  
All beside the point, which is that a blonde trollop is going to die very soon...just as soon as I can stand up again.  
  
I doubt this'll be happening for quite a while.  
  
I am, at this point, huddled into a miserable little ball on the floor, choking on sobs that won't quite come out, shredding that letter to tiny bits, shivering and gagging uncontrollably.  
  
Oh, yeah. I sure resemble someone who helped take down Lavos eight years ago. Froggy and Crono would be ashamed of me! Not to mention Magus. Heh...where's an angry blue-haired wizard ready and willing to Dark-Bomb the hell out of you, when you need one?  
  
I can just imagine it:  
  
'Pathetic little weakling! Someone really ought to put you out of your misery.'  
  
Thanks, friend.  
  
The mental image of the arrogant bastard and his 'the-sun-shines-directly- from-my-ass' expression is enough to give me the strength to stand. Why? Must be the knowledge that there are still people out there worse off than me. Or maybe it's the fact that in my mental image, he's wearing the pink nightie.  
  
Ooh...back to the nightie. Bad idea. Now the sobs do come, as does a blinding torrent of tears. Collapsing back to the floor, I lie in a little ball, the polished wood of the floor cool against my cheek, a puddle of tears gradually forming around me.  
  
Well. This is just ducky.  
  
I can't move.  
  
I don't WANT to move.  
  
I just want to die. I've had a crappy life.  
  
  
  
  
  
For starters, I was pushed through a tiny opening, much too small for my swollen head, dripping wet and naked into the freezing cold of my mother's bedroom, and into the hands of a midwife that proceeded immediately to give me a sound whack across the backside. Not only that, but that room was way too bright.  
  
I've been a night person ever since.  
  
  
  
  
  
My luck began to change somewhat when I met Crono at the age of 8 after being chased through town by a group of older boys who decided that they wanted the money my mother had given me to run an errand to the market. Idiots. I hope they're rotting in Hell.  
  
I hold a grudge pretty well, if I do say so myself.  
  
Hey, I remember the good, too.  
  
Under the bracket of 'the good' comes the recollection of watching in amazement from my vantage point quite literally up a tree as a boy with absurdly spiky red hair came out of nowhere and pounded the crap out of three guys at least four years older than him with a little wooden sword.  
  
Once the guys decided that it wasn't worth the inevitable bruises and left, I slid down from the tree and made some remark about his bad form.  
  
We've been best friends ever since.  
  
Pretty sad, isn't it? My first real friend at eight years old. What can I say? I've never liked people. And that certainly hasn't been remedied by the events of the past hour.  
  
Anyway, Crono and I kind of hit it off immediately, and in more ways than the typical 'hey, you're a kid, too, we'll be best friends!' thing. I really think we understood each other better than most people.  
  
And that didn't change at all as we grew up. I mean, sure, I see him less now that I used to before we both got married, but we're still the closest of friends.  
  
I think the first thing we ever really fought about was Isaac. Despite the fact that I met him at Crono and Marle's wedding, and he's known Crono for years - their parents have always been friends - Crono's always hated Isaac. Said he was untrustworthy or something. I laughed and told him not to be ridiculous.  
  
I'm sure not laughing now.  
  
I can still remember the first time I saw him - Isaac, I mean. It was, of course, at the party following Crono and Marle's wedding. I was doing what I do best at weddings: feeling bitter toward all the world. Not that I wanted Crono for myself - god, no. I'm proud to say that I have never harboured any thoughts of THAT nature about my lifelong best friend. It's just that when a girl is twenty years old and suffering from the effects of a twenty year celibacy that doesn't seem to be coming to an end any time soon, the sight of a VERY good-looking man can kind of make her jump into action...and proceed to jump HIM.  
  
I remember sitting at the bar, drinking ale with an already rather plastered Frog, who sobered up pretty quick when I grabbed his arm in a death-grip and hissed in his ear,  
  
"Good lord, Froggy, will you take a look at that?!"  
  
Frog, rubbing his eyes, peered in the approximate direction that I had been pointing. Of course, a large amount of alcohol never does wonders for a person's perception. And so...  
  
"Er...dost thou mean, Magus?" he asked bewilderedly.  
  
"No!" I barked, wondering in the back of my mind how on earth Crono managed to convince Magus to show up, anyway. "Don't be an idiot! I mean the dark- haired guy in the corner!"  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"He's HOT!" I squeaked, shoving my drink at Frog. "Hold this."  
  
  
  
And with that, I, one Lucca Ashtear set out on the hunt for a husband. Of course, that didn't cross my mind at that point. Who needed a husband? I was twenty, loaded with alcohol, and sick of weddings. I just wanted some fun.  
  
And I got it.  
  
He was either the wittiest guy I've ever met, or I was just too damn drunk to know the difference.  
  
Probably the second, I have since reflected.  
  
At any rate, we got to talking, and he told me about his recent decision to move to Truce and pursue a career in farming. I longed to ask him exactly how recent the decision was, to see, I suppose, if I could pull a little cheap flattery or flirting from him.  
  
He went on to tell me that he liked to paint in his spare time, and that he considered philosophy a fascinating study.  
  
He thought it was absolutely 'too adorable' when I asked him to explain to me exactly what philosophers DO.  
  
Two hours and about twelve gallons (give or take a pint) of ale later, we were back in the room of Guardia castle that Marle and Crono had given him temporary possession of, pulling at one another's fancy wedding clothes.  
  
I can't tell you how good it felt to get out of that dress.  
  
Of course, when we got married eight months from then, I was right back in another dress.  
  
Sigh. Somehow, that day, I didn't mind.  
  
  
  
  
  
And so, here I am now, lying on the floor of our home, curled into a little ball, recalling the past three years of wedded bliss, nearly drowning in a steadily growing puddle of tears. As I try with all my might to choke back my sobs, I recall something rather horrifying, something that I haven't thought about in a couple years.  
  
  
  
One day, about a month after we'd been married, a woman came to our house, looking for Isaac. I told her that he was out - he had left to work the farm an hour before - and I asked her if I could help her with something. She gave her name as Madelynne Donia, and demanded to know who I was. Rather irritated by the haughty, accusatory tone that she took, I told her just as haughtily that I was Mrs. Isaac Lesley. She stared at me incredulously for a moment, then broke down in tears right there. Alarmed, I insisted that she come in and rest a while before going anywhere, but, of course, she refused, tearing her arm away from my hand and running away.  
  
When Isaac came back in that evening, I asked him about it. He went dead white, then told me casually that she was an old girlfriend who was apparently seeking reconciliation.  
  
Like an idiot, I believed him.  
  
  
  
  
  
As I recall that he had gone to run an errand that night, and had seemed to be gone longer than an ordinary errand should take, I cease crying, and simply lay there shuddering.  
  
Finally, a good half hour later, eyes burning, skin feeling tight and itchy, head feeling three times its normal size, I drudge up the courage to move. I even manage to stand up.  
  
Yaay me.  
  
Then, nearly tripping and making the rest of the journey on my face a grand total of three times, I climb down the stairs.  
  
Once safely on the main floor, I make a quick decision.  
  
I head straight for our alcohol supply.  
  
Yaay whiskey.  
  
I hoist myself up onto the kitchen counter and lay into the whiskey bottle with a great load of speed and intent, swinging my legs back and forth merrily, heels bumping against the closed cupboard doors.  
  
Half a bottle of truly vile-tasting liquid later, I come to a decision.  
  
Something really must be done.  
  
Besides, that is, becoming so drunk that I'm hard-pressed to remember my own name.  
  
As a recollection hits me, I decide EXACTLY what is to be done.  
  
  
  
  
  
On my way through the town, I happened to pass a certain tavern that Isaac and I tend to frequent when we've an evening to waste and nothing better to do. I noticed with half a mind that a very wealthy-looking carriage, drawn by two very nice chestnut-brown monsters - horses, technically, I suppose - I'm not a great lover of wildlife - parked in front of it. It seemed a bit strange, but I didn't think much of it.  
  
Heh...now I'm thinkin'.  
  
The carriage obviously belongs to this mysterious Ariana, if those clothes and rings are any indication of her financial state. It certainly doesn't belong to anyone else in Truce.  
  
Oh, you're goin' DOWN, horses!  
  
It's time for Lucca to do a little hell-raisin'.  
  
Anonymously, of course.  
  
After all, I do have this pesky cerebral cortex thing.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Please R&R and tell me what you think! Should I continue? Should I quit while I'm ahead? Thank-you! 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2  
  
  
  
Twenty minutes later, I watch, my hand held respectfully over my heart, as the mystery woman's carriage goes bouncing down the steep incline into the water.  
  
Lucky for me that the tavern was built on the water.  
  
Otherwise, more than one citizen of Truce might have wondered what on earth that wife of that young Isaac fellow was doing parading through the town with a very nice carriage in tow.  
  
I'm pretty sure that would see me tried for wilful destruction of the property of others, at the very least, theft.  
  
And I'm quite aware that they would not buy the excuse of 'I was drunk.'  
  
The past twenty minutes, I reflect, has been brilliant fun. There must be something wrong with me. Aside from the bottle of whiskey coursing through my system.  
  
That is, of course, why, after setting to rights everything around the house that I could, I strode confidently into town, bold and brash as anything, took a quick peek in the window of the tavern to observe my dear husband sharing a bowl of soup - from the same damn spoon - with a stunning blonde woman. She had a fantastic figure, I noted to myself instantly, thus fuelling my resolve to carry off the rest of my plan. After this, I set loose the two lovely chestnut brown mares harnessed to the front of this Ariana girl's carriage.  
  
I've never believed in the caging of animals.  
  
Or of carriages, which is why I've liberated Mystery Blonde's by shoving it into the ocean.  
  
Alright, maybe it's just because I'm a bitch.  
  
Then, just as I am about to put into effect by far the most satisfying aspect of my plan, to march straight into the tavern and confront them both, a niggling voice whispers from the back of my mind that eventually, Isaac's little side-munch will find out about her carriage. And if she knows that I know that she's spent the past three days bonking my husband, I will be a prime suspect.  
  
The prime suspect.  
  
The ONLY suspect.  
  
Never mind the bit about her bonking my husband.  
  
Apparently, between the vandalism of carriages and engaging in acts of fornication with other people's spouses, the vandalism is by far the more morally bankrupt action.  
  
Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Categorizing all the reasons that barging into the tavern and confronting them would be the dumbest move I've ever made.  
  
I've no desire to end this night in prison.  
  
I think I've been through enough.  
  
So, what do I do? Go back home, make a cup of tea, and curl up with a good book, pretending that I've noticed nothing?  
  
Hey, I could have read '150 Favourite Love Poems,' if I hadn't destroyed it...  
  
Somehow, I don't think that waiting for them at home will exonerate me. I doubt I could keep a straight face before my husband's 'unexplainable' agitation and subtle attempts to shoo away his gorgeous blonde plaything.  
  
And then, of course, I would have to explain to him why I hadn't unpacked yet.  
  
'Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I thought I'd give you time to rearrange the room, clear away anything you'd rather I didn't see. Any sexy lingerie that isn't mine, perhaps...'  
  
I would need one squashy head to do something like that.  
  
So, all in all, home is out.  
  
Well, I was originally to return tomorrow evening. I could just head somewhere else until then, pretend that I haven't even been home today.  
  
But where?  
  
Mom and Dad?  
  
Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to run crying to Mommy and Daddy right now, to have Mommy cuddle me and pat me on the head and comfort me while Daddy paces back and forth, furiously ranting about all the vile and destructive things that he plans on doing to the man who dared to break his little girl's heart.  
  
The problem is, they've both liked Isaac since they met him.  
  
I just can't bring myself to take that away from them.  
  
Hell, I can't even take it away from myself. I'm still telling myself that everything will be just fine, that this whole thing is a misunderstanding.  
  
Yeah, right.  
  
Mmm...we still have the Epoch in a shed in our backyard. Everyone else along for the whole 'destroying Lavos' thing decided that we should keep it on hand, just in case. In case of what, no one's ever really told me. And I guess I was the obvious choice to have it cluttering up my shed, as I was the one who spent, as Crono always laughingly said, the 'quality time' with it.  
  
Luckily, Isaac was very understanding about the whole thing, and as a fellow gadget-nut (professed, at any rate), was fascinated with the Epoch.  
  
You wouldn't believe the time I've had trying to keep him from tinkering with it and consequently blowing it, himself, and the entire neighbourhood sky-high.  
  
If I'd known what he was finding to tinker with instead, the destruction of the neighbourhood might not have looked so bad to me.  
  
The shed was for the obvious purpose of halting the prying eyes of neighbours from ogling the futuristic machine stashed in our yard.  
  
I could take it for a spin, go to see some of the old group...  
  
Robo pops to mind first.  
  
Somehow, though, wonderful a piece of machinery - and more than that, a friend - as he is, I think I'd rather be around a flesh-and-blood person right now. After all, a robot has a standard of morals programmed into him that would be likely to believe me to be the villain.  
  
After all, wanton vandalism goes above adultery on any purely intellectual moral code.  
  
No Robo.  
  
  
  
Crono?  
  
He's really the obvious choice. Unfortunately, I've learned over the past years that Crono doesn't have a lot of time to nurse old friends through their marital crises and relating emotional breakdowns.  
  
Too bad, because it would be really nice to hear him rant about how he was going to find Isaac and take his innards out through his ass.  
  
He's never liked Isaac.  
  
Not only that, Marle's firm conviction that hugs and chocolate can cure anything wouldn't be completely unwelcome at the moment.  
  
Still, both of them are probably - no, definitely - busy doing 'ruler of Guardia' things, and probably wouldn't hail my impromptu visit with unbridled joy.  
  
And I hate to push myself where I'm unwanted, I think to myself with an ironic grin at the utter ridiculousness of this statement.  
  
Ayla?  
  
I...don't think she would be a lot of help. Sure, she might understand the problem if Isaac had up and told me that he wanted me to take off so he could be with some other girl, or many other girls for that matter, but I've learned through my friendship with Ayla that the Ioka don't have any context for the concept of adultery. Sex is shared as freely as wine at a party, and sharing a bed with someone (or a fur, rather) doesn't always indicate any deeper feelings.  
  
So long as a committed person doesn't decide that they like another person better than the one they've committed to, there isn't a problem with anyone sharing a bed with anyone.  
  
And even if I did get her to understand why this situation makes me so miserable, to truly feel my misery herself, there's always the chance that she would take it upon herself to go pound them both out of loyalty for a friend wronged.  
  
Damnit, Ayla, if anyone's going to be pounding them it's ME!  
  
No Ayla.  
  
  
  
Frog?  
  
Erk! No, I don't think it would be a good idea to go to someone as...morally upright as Frog after having just trashed a strange woman's carriage and ripped up and hurled through windows her various and sundry other belongings.  
  
I would be sure to be subjected to a Frog-lecture.  
  
And then, of course, I would be forced to rip him up and hurl him through a window.  
  
No Frog.  
  
  
  
Well, geez! I'm kind of running low on people here!  
  
Gaspar?  
  
No.  
  
Melchior?  
  
No.  
  
Try to find Toma?  
  
Uh...no.  
  
...  
  
...  
  
Magus?  
  
...  
  
Hmm...  
  
This just might work.  
  
Sure I won't be expecting any sympathetic hugs, but at least I can rant about my plans to disconnect Isaac's reproductive bits, fling them to the floor, and force both him and his new bed-buddy to watch, with the Wondershot aimed at their heads, as future generations of the two of them are well and truly obliterated, ground to nothingness beneath my heel.  
  
Magus certainly wouldn't judge me as evil for it.  
  
He'd be more likely to suggest that I use that boot I tripped over to do the grinding, for a bit of poetic justice.  
  
But I'm still a little unstable right now, and the thought of what his reaction would be if I broke down again gives me a moment of pause.  
  
I'm past the 'craving death' stage. Now I just crave chocolate and hugs and more alcohol.  
  
Let's summarize:  
  
Lack of any mentionable moral code: plus.  
  
Lack of any mentionable human kindness and pity: minus.  
  
All in all, I think Magus is out.  
  
And so, this decided, I plunk down on the rocky slope dipping into the ocean and wrack my brains for somewhere else to go.  
  
  
  
  
  
It is now half an hour later, and I am striding quickly away from the Epoch, which somehow managed to survive the brutal beating my drunken attempt at piloting gave it, and gazing up in slight nervousness and consternation at a dark, massive, foreboding castle.  
  
Nice place you got here, Magus.  
  
Gradually, I slow to a stop, re-tallying the pros and cons of staying here.  
  
It turns out, my brains just aren't in the mood to be cudgelled today. So naturally, they couldn't think of anyone else for me to go to.  
  
Magus was the best overall choice, with Ayla as a close second.  
  
After all, her philosophy of 'party now, think later' is very appealing at the moment.  
  
As I'm thinking all of this, I've approached the house and somehow contrived to lift the massive knocker and let it fall back into place.  
  
During the wait for someone to come to the door, the idea of visiting Ayla begins to look better and better.  
  
Finally, my mind made up, I turn and start back toward the Epoch...  
  
...and cringe as I hear the heavy front door of the massive castle creak open.  
  
With a nervous laugh, I turn back to the door and plaster a big, phoney smile onto my face. I have this terrible suspicion, though, that it comes across more as a pained grimace than anything.  
  
"Hi, Magus!" I greet the tall, blue-haired man leaning against the doorframe and surveying me as though I'm some kind of poisonous spider that isn't supposed to be found in this part of the world: with a hint of curiosity overshadowed by distaste.  
  
He continues to gaze at me such as I stammer out more pathetic small talk, and gradually, my steady stream of nervous chatter peters out into a heavy silence.  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
Well. Magus has never been one to waste words; I'll say that for the guy.  
  
"Well, y'know, I was in the area, and I thought to myself 'hey, Lucca, it's been a long time since you last saw Magus. Why not drop by to say hello?'"  
  
"In the area?" he repeats, and for a split second, I am certain that I catch a slight bit of humour in his tone. Then again, that could just be the whiskey speaking. Shut up, whiskey! "You live four hundred years in the future."  
  
Uh-oh. The bastard's got me there. Feigning carelessness, I am in fact very careful to keep my eyes on the ground, to avoid his at any cost.  
  
"Yeah, well, I kind of needed to be out of the house."  
  
He sighs.  
  
"You'd better come in. It isn't exactly safe to be roaming around outside in the middle of the night."  
  
"Is it that late already?!" I exclaim, making a sad attempt to go back to small talk.  
  
Rolling his eyes, he says nothing. He simply opens the door farther and steps aside to let me in.  
  
Once we are inside, he leads me down a dark hallway to a surprisingly small and pleasant, if slightly dark, library, dimly lit by a large fireplace along one wall, and four torches hung at various locations around the room. Then again, there could be two, and I could be seeing double.  
  
Damn lack of restraint.  
  
But I'm getting off track again.  
  
Magus motions for me to sit, and so I do, giggling in delight at the way that the immensely squishy black velvet cushions of the sofa almost envelops me. He seats himself in a wing chair opposite the sofa with a grace that, although fluid, is tempered with steel; there is no missing its strength.  
  
Then he proceeds to fix his eyes on me, neither blinking, nor moving a muscle, nor speaking a word.  
  
I'm beginning to get a little creeped out when suddenly he speaks up.  
  
"So, how about telling me what you're really doing here?" he suggests.  
  
"But I already have," I protest, thinking, it'll be a miracle if he doesn't Dark Bomb me on the spot for insulting his intelligence like this.  
  
He doesn't bring into use his considerable skill with magic, but he does snort incredulously.  
  
"You don't really think I believed that story, do you?"  
  
I sit back against those nice squishy cushions, looking away sheepishly.  
  
"Okay, not really. But do you really wanna know what I'm doing here?"  
  
"I don't know," he replies, then stops and frowns at me. "Lucca...are you...drunk?"  
  
"How could you tell?" I slur, feeling utterly pathetic. The jilted wife. Doomed to the pity of her friends forever. "Not drunk enough, though."  
  
"I think you're plenty drunk enough," he replies firmly. "How did you manage to get here, anyway?"  
  
"How else? I took the Epoch."  
  
"You...can't walk in a straight line, but you took the Epoch?"  
  
Damn. How did he notice that? Does this man have eyes in the back of his head?  
  
"Well...I had to. I really had to get out of Truce for the night."  
  
He is silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim light of the fire, shadows flickering over him.  
  
"I think you'd better tell me what happened," he finally says.  
  
Oy. Do you have any idea what you're getting yourself into, you moody bastard?  
  
Slowly, I begin. I tell him about this past evening. I tell him about coming home to find the house littered with another woman's belongings. I tell him about the unfortunate fate of some of those same belongings. I tell him about going upstairs to find the bed mussed up and another woman's nightie on my pillow. I tell him about the letter, confirming what I had suspected about the identity of the woman. I tell him about the havoc I have wreaked on the mystery woman's carriage and horses. The only thing I don't tell him about is the puddle of tears that I left on the landing. After all, I still have my pride. Morals and decency be damned, but I still have my pride.  
  
He is silent for a long time after I finish.  
  
"So...the reason that you have to stay out of Truce tonight is that you don't want to get in trouble for destroying someone else's," he finally says.  
  
"Pretty much," I agree cheerfully.  
  
He is silent for another long moment, slowly and deliberately pouring two glasses of the brandy on a small shelf nearby.  
  
"I must say, I'm surprised," he admits, handing me one of the glasses.  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
"I never thought of you as a vandal."  
  
"These aren't ordinary circumstances."  
  
"I honestly never thought you'd have the nerve."  
  
I blink. Is he...impressed? I mean, I didn't think he would be disapproving, but I didn't expect to earn his admiration for this.  
  
"I sort of did it without thinking," I admit.  
  
"There was thinking involved," Magus corrects grimly. "It just wasn't yours. It was the alcohol's."  
  
"You know," I point out, indicating the glass in my hand, "this isn't exactly helping with that."  
  
"You don't have to drink it," he informs me, reaching for the glass.  
  
I cuddle my precious brandy protectively.  
  
"I didn't say I didn't want it! You just sounded kinda disapproving that I'd been drinking."  
  
"It isn't for me to approve or disapprove," he replies boredly.  
  
Oh, thanks.  
  
"Oh, thanks," I say. Hey, I'm too drunk to be creative, people!  
  
He sighs, sipping at his own drink.  
  
"I wonder about one thing, though."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"You've broken the window, torn up the woman's belongings, broken windows, and depleted your whiskey supply. Don't you think it'll be obvious to this husband of yours that someone's been in the house?"  
  
"Nope," I reply proudly. "Really, Magus, have a little more faith in my brain power than that! I got rid of any signs that I'd been there. I brought my duffel bag along-"  
  
"How convenient," he murmurs, rubbing his forehead wearily.  
  
I ignore him and continue.  
  
"-I buried that book, and all the empty whiskey bottles. I brought her boot back inside and put it exactly where I found it. Oh, and I took a cookie jar full of money, just for effect."  
  
"How underhanded of you."  
  
"A laughable statement, considering my husband is the one who's been trying out another woman in our bed."  
  
"Yes, there is that. I think that carriage or no carriage, you would have been better off confronting them both immediately."  
  
My hands start to shake ever so slightly, and I feel a fiery pang tear through me at the knowledge that to admit I knew would likely be to lose Isaac forever.  
  
Either that, or he'll make excuses, and this will become a cycle. Even losing him immediately couldn't be as bad as being fed lie after lie for years on end.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"What will it help to keep this kind of knowledge to yourself? It's only going to hurt you all in the end, with you getting more and more bitter by the day. You know that you'll be helpless to confront him after the fact."  
  
"I...I want to wait," I whisper, now squeezing my brandy glass so tightly that I can nearly hear my knuckles creak.  
  
"Wait for what?" he demands, annoyed.  
  
"It might have been a one-time thing. We all know that men turn into simpering idiots at the sight of blonde hair and a nice set of...ahem. Anyway...it was probably some idiotic hormonal thing that won't happen again!"  
  
How desperately I wish that I believed that.  
  
Magus apparently doesn't believe it any more than I do. He rises from his chair and walks around the low table between us, and carefully pries the brandy glass from my hand. Then he sets it on the table and sits next to me. He gives an incredulous snort.  
  
"You're joking, right? Are you really that much of a fool?"  
  
"No; I'm that crazy about him."  
  
"So crazy that you're willing to put up with his dalliances with another woman?"  
  
"If it doesn't happen again, yes."  
  
"Lucca, for Gods' sake, it isn't just some three-day stand. They slept in your bed. They've been playing housekeeper."  
  
I stare down at my hands, folded in my lap, and cringe in horror as drops begin to fall from my eyes, splashing down over my fingers.  
  
"I...I still want to wait. If it doesn't happen again, I'm going to forget about it."  
  
"No," he corrects, and I can hear the rising anger in his tone. "You'll try to forget."  
  
"Love is about forgiveness."  
  
"But not forgetfulness."  
  
"Forgive and forget."  
  
"That's a myth," he informs me with a bitter laugh.  
  
That shuts us both up, as we both gaze moodily off in opposite directions.  
  
Wow...this is not how I envisioned my evening. I thought I'd get home from a long day of travel, enjoy a quiet meal with my darling, loving husband, listen to him prattle on for a while about the hidden meaning of some novel or other that he's been reading, eventually shut him up with a kiss, and...well, go from there.  
  
Instead, I'm spending my evening drinking brandy with a moody sorcerer as I pour out my soul to him about all my marital troubles.  
  
Not that I'm complaining.  
  
This is damn good brandy.  
  
  
  
  
  
End Notes: Wow. I really don't know what Magus is doing in here. If I put in any sort of romance, I'm going to have to take it painfully s l o w l y. Let me know what you think, okay? 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3  
  
  
  
An hour later, as I'm sipping away at a third glass, the brandy is gradually tasting better and better.  
  
Hmm...I'd better not let this become a habit.  
  
At some point, a thought occurs to me. I hope Magus doesn't expect me to fly the Epoch home. Time travel and alcohol do not mix. Even if I could get home without crashing, I'd probably get dizzy and hurl in the passenger side. Wouldn't that be a nice surprise for the next poor sucker who had to use the thing?  
  
I glance up, and it's on the tip of my tongue to ask if he'd mind if I camped out in the Epoch outside his house.  
  
Before I have the opportunity to ask, though, he gazes at me, apparently considering, and begins to speak.  
  
"You do know there's no way I'm letting you leave in this state."  
  
"U-um...what else can I do?"  
  
Can I bluff or what?  
  
"You'll stay here. I'm sure in this entire castle, I'll be able to find a room for you to stay in, far enough away from mine that you don't get in my way."  
  
I laugh.  
  
God, I must be horribly drunk, if I've just laughed at something Magus said.  
  
He stands to leave and, not quite sure of what's going on, I follow.  
  
  
  
  
  
Five more corridors later, I find myself alone in a large freezing cold bedroom, which hasn't yet been warmed by the fire that Magus left me to light for myself in the massive stone fireplace across from the bed. Shivering, I shoot a fireball into the dry kindling heaped in the fireplace, change hastily into the nightgown he's left me - at least it isn't pink and lacy, although I don't even want to know who it used to belong to; Flea, perhaps? Argh! No! I don't want to think about it! - and dive under the black and grey bedspread and sheets. Dreary, perhaps, but nice and warm.  
  
Seconds later, it occurs to me that it might not be the safest thing in the world to sleep with a roaring fire right across from oneself. I am just in the process of climbing reluctantly from beneath my nice, soft, warm nest of blankets, when a sharp rap at the door echoes through the room.  
  
Hastily pulling my sweater over the nightgown for some sense of decency, I hurry to the door.  
  
"I thought you might need an extra blanket. These rooms tend to be cold," Magus informs me abruptly, shoving a navy blue wool blanket at me and eyeing the fire that I have managed to light without sending his entire home up in flames.  
  
"Thanks," I say, taking it.  
  
He continues to stand there, watching me, and after a time, it makes my skin crawl.  
  
"Uh...something wrong?"  
  
"No," he replies.  
  
"Oh. Um, good."  
  
"I'd like to talk to you tomorrow morning about this situation of yours, so don't run away too early," he requests in a tone that sounds more like a command than anything.  
  
With that, he turns and leaves.  
  
I stare at the door as it swings closed behind him, shaking my head in bewilderment.  
  
Magus! I'm surprised! What would people say if they knew that you, a heartless sorcerer, were taking in former acquaintances and helping them deal with their problems? You'd be the laughingstock of the Mystics! I can just see it now:  
  
'Hey, d'ya hear 'bout Magus?'  
  
'Yeah! I heard he gave some old friend a room for the night.'  
  
'Yeah! And an extra blanket!'  
  
'Yeah! AND he offered to lend an ear!'  
  
'Huh-huh...what a loser...'  
  
Snickering at this imaginary exchange between two of the little green creatures we met in Medina, I climb back into bed and snuggle comfortably under the extra blanket he left.  
  
What an odd sensation, I reflect moments later, once the utter hilariousness of my own little inside joke wears off. To feel such emotional and mental anguish in the midst of such physical comfort.  
  
And so the dam, shakily reconstructed after nearly losing it in front of Magus, breaks again, and for the first night since the one following Mother's accident, but certainly not the last, I cry myself to sleep.  
  
  
  
The next think I am aware of is a sharp rapping at the door.  
  
"Who's there?" I call groggily, sitting up and rubbing my eyes. At least, I think I'm sitting. Of course, with this pounding in my head, I might be falling from a cliff, and I'd never know it. Until I hit the ground, of course. Well, maybe.  
  
"What the hell are you doing in there?" a voice calls back.  
  
I roll my eyes, which proves immediately to be a mistake as another wave of pain envelops my poor, abused head. Magus, you can be an enormous pain in the ass. Don't you know anything about hangovers?  
  
"I've been asleep," I inform him, trying to make my tone icy. I have a feeling, though, that it just comes out plaintive and whiny.  
  
"Well, you're awake now, so get dressed and meet me at the end of the hall."  
  
Then I hear the faint noise of retreating footsteps against carpet.  
  
Well. Okay, then. No more sleep for poor, exhausted Lucca and her poor, exhausted hangover. No, on second thought, the hangover doesn't get any sympathy. It's the one responsible for making my head hurt and making me pray for death.  
  
Okay, wrong again. Isaac is the one responsible for making me pray for death.  
  
However, there will be plenty of time to dwell on this later. Right now, I'm not anxious to test the extent of Magus' patience with women suffering hangovers, whether or not they had good reason.  
  
So, reluctantly, I leave my nice, safe, soft, warm cocoon of quilts and blankets, and climb out of bed. Then I proceed to stand there, in a borrowed nightdress, shivering.  
  
Then, several minutes later, it occurs to me that I probably wouldn't be so cold if I'd put on some clothes.  
  
  
  
  
  
Finally, fifteen minutes later, I have managed to get through to my brain, despite the heavy fog of hangover surrounding it, and I slip quietly from the bedroom assigned to me for the night.  
  
I hope fifteen minutes wasn't too long to keep him waiting...  
  
From his annoyed demeanour, his crossed arms and impatiently tapping foot, it doesn't look good.  
  
"How long can it possibly take a person to get dressed?" he demands as I pad down the carpeted hallway toward him.  
  
He is, of course, already neatly dressed, and observes me with cool, appraising eyes that make me very aware of the fact that there was no brush to be found within that room, and that little wisps of purple are dancing haphazardly around my face, and that my clothes are horribly wrinkled from spending all night on the floor.  
  
All in all, I'm quite the little mess.  
  
Not that I care, of course.  
  
"What time is it, anyway?" I finally venture, quite proud of myself for not sounding timid, as we set off together down the corridor.  
  
"Two hours until midday, I would assume," he replies carelessly, swinging open a door to his left and standing aside to let me enter first.  
  
"Thanks," I murmur. After all, I still have SOME manners.  
  
Well, as many as I ever had.  
  
Not that that's saying much...  
  
As he follows me in and shuts the door, I notice that it's the same room we were in last evening. I solemnly greet those nice, soft couch cushions good morning under his watchful eye, watchfully eyeing me as though I've gone suddenly insane, and then proceed to further show my appreciation by sitting on them. Wordlessly, Magus hands me a cup of coffee.  
  
Wow. This is nice. I ought to have marital disasters more often.  
  
I immediately bash the part of my brain flippant enough to voice such a thought into non-existence as a wave of pain that has nothing to do with my hangover washes over me. Then I sit there for a time, hunched over dejectedly, clutching the coffee mug for warmth.  
  
"Thanks," I manage after another few minutes. "So...you wanted to talk to me?"  
  
"I'm simply interested in knowing what you're going to do now," he replies tonelessly. Interested...right. You sure sound interested, Maggie, dear.  
  
Of course, I don't say this out loud. I still don't REALLY want to die. Although, it might be worth certain death, just to see how he'd react to such a degrading little nickname.  
  
"W-well, I don't know. I think I'll probably just go back home and tell Isaac that Dad and I stayed an extra day in Porre."  
  
"You aren't planning to confront him?"  
  
I freeze for a moment.  
  
"No."  
  
He sighs.  
  
"Well. I suppose you are more of a fool than I ever imagined."  
  
"Thanks," I beam at him, taking a gulp of coffee and then recalling immediately why I DIDN'T wanna do that. "Ow! Hot hot hot!"  
  
"Listen, when you find yourself being fed lie after lie, helpless to make him admit what he's been up to, don't ever try to say I didn't warn you."  
  
"I won't, because I won't be fed lie after lie, because this was obviously just a one-time thing," I shoot back at him, desperately wishing that I could believe it to be true. "Thanks for letting me crash here last night, but I should probably get home."  
  
He shrugs noncommittally, pouring himself another cup of coffee.  
  
Without another word, I stand and leave.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Oh, shit," I mutter to myself fifteen minutes later, landing the Epoch on a flat patch of grass some miles from Truce as a fatal flaw in my planning suddenly becomes apparent. If Isaac sees me returning the Epoch to our shed, he'll know for a fact that I've been home.  
  
Great. What am I going to do now?  
  
After sitting for fifteen minutes, ignoring the strange looks I'm receiving from passers by, I decide what must be done.  
  
I'm goin' to visit the king!  
  
Do you recall back when I said that I hate to push myself in where I'm not wanted?  
  
Well, didn't I tell you right away that that was crap?  
  
Hey, let's be fair. I'm just going to leave the Epoch there and zip on home before Isaac chances to see my father in the village, finds out that I was to have been home last night, and puts two and two together.  
  
Then again, maybe that won't be an issue. After all, Isaac has admitted to himself and to me often enough that he has no mathematical skills at all. And when Isaac admits that he has no skill at something, you know it's true. He isn't one to belittle his own skills. Thus, putting two and two together might prove beyond him.  
  
I can hope, anyway.  
  
Hmph. Isn't the cheating spouse supposed to be the one sneaking around?  
  
  
  
Ten more minutes see me wandering aimlessly about the training range set up for the castle's military. This, I have learned after numerous frustrating attempts to find Crono within the castle, is always the first place to look for him.  
  
The range is, thankfully, quite empty today. This is a blessing for two main reasons. The first is, obviously, that I look a fright that only a best friend for over fifteen years could see without turning to stone. I don't want to waste time explaining to various and sundry men that yes, I am perfectly fine, and no, I have not been assaulted.  
  
The second reason, I reflect with a smile as my gaze lights on a bobbing patch of flaming red not far away, is that this will make Crono even easier to spot than his hair does normally.  
  
Just now, Crono is completely engrossed in beating up ruthlessly on a corn husk training dummy that I'm beginning to feel very sorry for as the Rainbow, glittering and deadly in his hands, slices easily through it and it falls to the ground in pieces.  
  
"Good job, slick, but now you know you'll need a new dummy," I call, laughing slightly.  
  
He utters a startled shout and whirls about, his expression of surprise and anger vanishing instantly when his eyes light on me.  
  
"Lucca!"  
  
"Yup, that's me."  
  
"Uh...well, good to see you." Now his expression morphs in record time from the wide grin of slightly bemused welcome to one of alarm as he takes in my swollen red eyes, mussed, dirty hair and wrinkled clothes. "What happened to you?" he demands, taking my arm gently.  
  
I wince, tugging my arm away.  
  
"Look, Crono, I really can't talk about that right now. I've gotta leave the Epoch here for a while."  
  
The puzzlement on the poor boy's face right now is absolutely hilarious to behold.  
  
"The...Epoch? Why did you have it out? Seriously, Lucca, what's going on?"  
  
"It's nothing that's threatening to bring an end to life as we know it, if that's what you mean," I tell him, trying for impatience, but sounding more sad and lost than anything as I pick a leaf absently out of my hair and fiddle with it, not lifting my gaze from the crumpled, brown object as it spins around in my fingers.  
  
He sighs.  
  
"Then what IS it?"  
  
I don't answer.  
  
"Listen, you're my best friend, and everything's obviously NOT alright. Tell me what happened."  
  
"Alright," I shrug, irrationally furious at him for being so kind, so considerate, so composed, but most of all, so happy in his own perfectly successful union with a partner who loves him and would never conceive of hurting him as Isaac has hurt me. "What do you want to know?"  
  
"Let's start with WHY you need to leave the Epoch here."  
  
"Fine," I shoot back, crossing my arms. "Because I came home early from a trip yesterday to find out that my husband's screwing some gorgeous blonde behind my back, and after I trashed the house and the girl's things, I had to get out of there because I'd have been arrested."  
  
His eyes widened, and I am smugly satisfied to see that his expression has grown every bit as horrified and furious, as I knew I could count on from my best friend.  
  
However, before he can say anything, something beyond my shoulder catches his gaze. I turn to see a palace official approaching quickly.  
  
"Shit, the meeting," Crono mutters, rolling his eyes. "Is it eleven already?" Then he turns to me. "Look, Lucca, don't go anywhere. You can come wait inside, I'll get someone to get you a cup of coffee..."  
  
"Eleven?! Dammit!" I yelp, then recover and beam at him. "Hey, I know you're busy," I assure him. "I've gotta get home, anyway, before Isaac runs into Dad somewhere and finds out that I should have been home last night."  
  
"Lucca, wait a second-"  
  
"I just left the Epoch with some guys. They said they'd take care of it."  
  
"Hold on, Lucca-"  
  
"Bye, Crono," I toss over my shoulder, nearly taking out the uniformed official as I bolt past him.  
  
It's at least an hour's walk back to our little home on the outskirts of Truce.  
  
Not that the walk won't be welcome.  
  
I've got a lot of thinking to do.  
  
  
  
  
  
By the time I reach the little, low stone fence encircling our small, yet comfortable home and the similarly small, yet adequately roomy lot it's built on, I have done the requisite thinking, and I know exactly how I'm going to react to all of this.  
  
Isaac will have no clue that I suspect a thing.  
  
But that doesn't mean that he won't suffer. I'm quite looking forward to watching him try to maintain his emotional equilibrium in the face of all that has happened to his lady-friend in the past twelve hours. After all, he won't be able to tell his loving wife what the matter is.  
  
'I'm in a bad mood, my love, because the girl I have taken for a mistress for a bit of fun while you were out of town, has had her book of poetry ripped up, her nutritional guide likewise destroyed, and her carriage pushed into the water.'  
  
Right. Although it would likely be the best thing for both of us, as I am completely unwilling to admit, I know for a fact that he won't admit to what he's been doing. He'll just leave it for me to find out from some kindly neighbour. He's hoping that I'll start sobbing and declare tearfully that the marriage is over, so that he can claim to have no responsibility of the utter failure of the union. Notoriously selfish, this husband of mine.  
  
Then again, perhaps this isn't his plan at all. Perhaps he honestly IS so stupid as to think that I won't find out from anyone about his new toy. In that case, if I call him on it, again tearfully, he can give me a big, comforting hug, telling me that it's over, that she never meant anything, that it was me he loved all along. And, of course, my heart will melt and I'll forgive him without question. The saddest thing by far is that, if he told me all of this right now, I would react that way. To the letter. Heart melting and all.  
  
But I won't play into his perfect little plan. No, if he wants to run off and play with his little blonde with impunity, he will have to tell me first. I plan on being utterly and unexplainably clueless as to his extramarital activities. I refuse to approach him. Who knows? Maybe having to actually end the relationship will make him think twice before doing this to another woman. For the first time, I feel wracked with sympathy for they mysterious Madelynne Donia. She was exactly where I am now, and worse. He hadn't even bothered to marry her before discarding her like a used toy before going on to something new and exciting like the spoilt brat he is.  
  
That doesn't mean I don't still love him.  
  
God, if only.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N: Tune in next chapter to see the full wrath of Marle earlier alluded to, as Crono shares his best friend's revelation with his wife, who goes immediately on the warpath. Will Isaac survive? ^^ 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Before entering the house, I spend a good deal of time steeling myself to face Isaac...which is why I'm quite disappointed to find out that he's not home. 

On the plus side, all of this mysterious Arianna's things are cleared out of my home, I reflect after tossing my duffel bag on the floor next to the door and doing a once-over of the house, top and bottom. 

Isaac has been very conscientious, indeed, in tidying up the house so that his dear, exhausted wife won't have to. 

Or so he would doubtlessly have me believe.

Unfortunately, love, adultery only has those kinds of fringe benefits when you wife doesn't know about it.

I slog exhaustedly to the kitchen and fill our kettle with water. Although tea isn't as good as, say, perhaps whiskey, it is the best I can manage right now, if I don't want Isaac to demand in concerned anger exactly why I am reeking of alcohol.

    'Speaking of reeking,' I think to myself, gagging as I catch a whiff of that beautiful flowery scent from yesterday.

Of course, by now it is barely more than a hint, not nearly so thick as yesterday. Faint enough that one would never notice it unless they were looking for it. Or a dog. And although the way that Isaac spoke of Madelynne Donia after she left that day leads me to believe that Arianna Harland, her fabulous figure, her fat wallet, and her empty head are hearing all about what a bitch I am, I am not a dog, and thus am helpless to bring up the scent of the perfume to my husband. Too bad. It would have been fun to ask him playfully if he'd taken to wearing it himself and watch him blush and squirm, replying in outrage that of course he hasn't.

Flopping against the kitchen counter to wait for the water to come to a boil, I glance idly out the window.

Hold on.

Something's different.

What happened to the gaping hole in the window?

Well. I suppose this is a true sign that one's life has gone completely and utterly insane. When the lack of gaping holes in one's kitchen window indicates that something is wrong, it must be time to skip town and start a new life as a circus acrobat.

For a moment, I amuse myself with images of running away to join the circus, and Isaac coming after me in the self-righteous anger of an abandoned husband. I would, of course, refuse to come back. I wouldn't tell him why; I would just refuse. When he asked, I would just say that Truce had plenty of part-time mechanics, and no town really benefited from a real, honest-to-God mad scientist in its midst. 

   'But, Lucca, I don't have plenty of wives,' he would murmur huskily against my hair, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around me. 'I need you.'

From here, I would have the choice of simply playing along and letting what fun might happen, happen – after all, in my fantasy, I look damn good in the little skin-tight, rhinestone-studded black acrobat outfit, and he, dressed for some reason in a flowing pirate shirt with his hair longer than usual and just a little bit of stubble and looking truly delectable himself, is utterly in awe – or shoving him into a pile of elephant dung and remarking that he might want to tell that to Arianna Harland.

As I gag again at another faint whiff of the perfume, I decide heartlessly that it would be the latter. Startled, I finally notice the tears trickling from the corners of my eyes. Definitely, the latter. 

A shrill whistle interrupts my maudlin little moment.

Ah, the water's finally boiled.

I take the kettle off the stove and fill my own favourite sturdy brown teacup – my favourite mostly because the damn thing could be hit full-on by a flare spell and not get a chip – with steaming water and watch moodily as swirls of dark colour emerge from the teabag. 

The next moment, I bolt from my chair, startled, by a repeated thudding sound. It takes my muddled brain several seconds to realize that this means that someone is probably standing on our front step, waiting impatiently to be let in. 

By the time I climb to my feet, cursing all midday visitors violently, and start to the front entry, a shrill, worried voice has joined the pounding.

   "Lucca? Are you in there? Open the door, Lucca!"

Oh, God. I think I'll just go upstairs and pretend I'm out or dead or something. 

I'd recognize Marle's voice anywhere.

Unfortunately, by the time I decide that I'd be better off just ignoring the door, I've gotten close enough that she's definitely heard footsteps. 

Shoulders sagging dejectedly, I open the front door.

Now, as a sidebar, please don't get me wrong. I love Marle ordinarily. Well, I like Marle ordinarily. She's fun, if you're not trying to focus on something particularly meticulous. Her steady stream of chatter about the many blessings of life is hilarious most of the time.

Today, though, I'm feeling just selfish enough that one mention of the world's being wonderful place might just put me over the edge.

However, as I've said, it's too late, as the second the door is open, a pink-clad, blonde-haired fury hurls herself at me.

   "Lucca," Marle gasps, looking me in the eyes. I'm startled to see tears in hers. "Crono told me what happened. I came as soon as I could. Crono's waiting outside. He says he'll go away and pick me up later if you'd rather not have any guys around right now."

   "Don't be silly, Marle," I sigh, waving Crono, who is waiting at the gate with their horse, carriage, and driver, into the house. "But really, I'm fine now. You didn't have to come at all."

Instantly, I cringe inwardly at my own words. How exactly am I fine? The last thing I want is to be alone now, and the first people I think I'd like to be with now are Crono and Marle. 

However, as Marle glares sternly at me, it is immediately obvious that she doesn't believe my pathetic profession to be fine as far as she could spit the Epoch.

   "No, YOU don't be silly, Lucca. We are NOT letting you be alone. So just step aside and let us in so we can make you feel better before I pound you!" Then her expression brightens as she seems to notice the lumpy brown parcel in Crono's grasp. "Oh! And I picked up a big, gooey chocolate cake on the way. We were going to bring alcohol, but I'm a violent drunk."

   "So am I," I murmur as I motion for Crono to set the cake down on the kitchen counter.

Both immediately wheel on me.

   "What?" Marle demands, expression and tone filled with baffled amusement.

So, hesitantly, I tell them of my drunken escapades. Once again, I leave out the bit about sobbing on the landing. Marle as a fellow woman, and Crono as my best friend, can assume that part. And if they don't, so much the better.

As I reach the bit that includes all manner of petty vandalism and some not so petty, I glance sharply up at Crono and Marle. Marle seems to be trying very hard to look horrified enough to mask her delight. Crono makes no such effort and simply looks delighted.

   "Good for you, kid," he beams. "But I don't get why you didn't just go in and confront them."

I shake my head. First Magus, now Crono! These men! They don't understand anything, do they?

   "Yeah, Lucca," Marle agrees thoughtfully. "You should have just gone in and ripped them both into zillions of pieces."

Okay...maybe these women don't understand anything, either.

   "Guys," I begin slowly with a heavy sigh, dragging three plates from our kitchen cabinets with a good deal of unnecessary racket. Somehow, hearing things clatter makes me feel a little better. "Is having an affair technically illegal?"

   "No," Marle admits grudgingly, already seeing where I am going with this.

Crono, however, still looks bewildered.

   "Well, no it's not, but it's still a horrible thing to do!"

   "That's nice, Crono," I say dryly, patting him on the head. "Now. Is vandalism technically illegal?"

   "Yes," Marle sighs, scooping an enormous chunk of cake from the box to one of the plates and slapping it down on the table in front of me. It's nice to be thought of first...

   "Oh, right," Crono says gloomily, dropping into the chair across from mine. He shakes his head. "Still..."

   "That's why I took the Epoch, Crono. I didn't want Isaac and Blondie to put two and two together. Enraged wife plus Jack Daniels equals property damage, after all."

Crono laughs slightly.

   "Yeah, I guess you're better off keeping it from him right now. But you can still leave him, right?"

My silence at this is definitely not what either of them want to hear. Before I know what's happening, they've both bolted from their chairs, and they're shouting at me streams of incoherent garble that I think has something to do with the fact that I've got to be insane to consider staying with Isaac.

C'mon, guys. I am a mad scientist, after all. We're all entitled to be a little crazy.

   "Dammit, Lucca! Think for a minute! This isn't going to stop!" Marle shouts directly at me, grabbing my shoulders, dragging me from my chair, and giving me a little shake. I have no time to be shocked at Marle uttering an actual, honest-to-God swearword, let alone to prepare for this assault, and my impact with the table as I'm being dragged from my chair bumps my plate and slice of Death by Chocolate to the kitchen floor.

   "You're cleaning that up, you know," I inform her coolly, trying to disentangle myself from her grip. Marle, however, is not to be deterred. Her tone softening considerably, she continues.

   "Lucca, please. Don't let this happen to you. I'm so sorry you had to find out about Isaac this way, but now that you know, please get out while you can. The longer you wait, the harder it'll be, and I don't want to see you destroying your life with him."

I long to utter some flippant smart-ass comment – my typical reaction when drama gets too close for comfort, if one doesn't count hiding behind business-like cool or plain and simple bravado – but none of these three faithful friends will come, and I'm horrified to find my body wracked with sobs yet again.

Damn.

I used to be level-headed.

Of course, once I start crying, it will take an entire legion of men with crowbars to pry Marle from me, and I'm neither a legion, a man, or any of the above with a crowbar, so I lean weakly against her – more weakly than I'll ever admit again – and let her pat my hair soothingly while Crono hovers uncomfortably in the background.

I don't think the poor boy's ever seen me break down like this.

Hell, it's been a long time since _I've_ seen me break down like this.

Eventually, my tears slow to a trickle, and I sniffle bravely and even more bravely lift my head from Marle's shoulder and endeavour to stand on my own.

   "I guess you know," I manage to croak with a trace of humour in my voice, "that I'm going to do everything I can to make Isaac's life miserable until he comes clean."

Marle, her eyes as red and swollen as mine by now, shoots me a slightly disapproving look.

   "I really don't think this is the best way to handle it."

   "She's right, Lucca," Crono adds from the kitchen table, where he has long since finished clearing up the chaos left by two crying women. Now, there's a line for the ages... "Isaac's scum. We all know that now. I don't see how you're going to make yourself feel better by sticking around, even if you're making him miserable."

   "You don't understand, guys," I sigh, dropping back into my own chair and leaning my head on my hand. "You may know Isaac, Crono, but not like I do. I can't tell him I konw. And no, it isn't because I'm worried about being arrested for vandalism. It's because I know he won't come clean if I just outright confront him. He'll either say he doesn't know what he's talking about and be all outraged because I'm accusing him of something, or he'll give me some crap about how it'll never happen again. I-I guess I want to see if I mean enough to him that he can just be honest with me."

   "I know how you feel," Crono assures me softly, taking my hand in a comforting gesture. "But he won't come clean. You're not going to turn him into an honest guy just by staying with him and pretending you don't know anything. 

   "But what if nothing else happens after this?" I protest desperately, the words ringing as false in my own ears as they must in Crono's and Marle's. "I could be throwing away my marriage just because Isaac made a mistake!"

   "I think you know that's not the case," Marle said softly. "You know that you have every reason to expect this to happen again."

   "I'm still going to wait," I tell them both firmly, looking down at my hands with set lips, knowing ridiculously that I must be the spit-and-image of my grandmother right now. Her mule-like stubbornness, or "strength of will" if you feel like being generous, skipped a generation: my mother, and landed on me with twice the impact. This is partly why I never took long trips to Grandma's as a child during the summer without Mommy and Daddy: as Dad always said laughingly, they could never be sure that the house would still be there when they came to get me with us two stubborn, stubborn girls clashing for an extended period of time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Crono and Marle exchanging pained, helpless looks. They know they've lost.

Good. 

Unfortunately, I can practically read "for now" in Marle's expression.

This certainly won't be the end of the argument. They will stay very much involved.

All but a small, stupid part of me is relieved.

I really didn't want to go through this alone.

And so, once they've bid me goodbye, Marle promising for both of them that they will be back to see me again soon, I finally get around to drinking my tea, which is so strong by now that it could stand up on its own.

Sitting at the kitchen table, teacup thus in hand, I wait patiently for Isaac to return for lunch. As I wait, I map out in my head exactly what I will say, exactly how I will trap him.

God. Why do I feel like I'm leading both of us to the executioner's block?


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

After Crono and Marle leave, I sit at the table with my head down for a long time before it occurs to me that just because my life is falling apart at the seams doesn't mean I have to neglect my work. 

After several disastrous attempts to use a welding torch with a very distracted mind, I curl up on the couch with a book I've been meaning to read for weeks now. Just because I'm not neglecting my work doesn't mean I have to burn down the house.

After staring at the fifteenth page for several minutes, just as I am about to cast it aside in disgust, I hear the door open and a familiar voice calls out,

   "I'm home, love!"

For a moment, I sit motionless. The greeting, called out in exactly the same easy, cheery voice as every other day, the comfort of something so familiar, set my eyes immediately brimming with tears. At least, that's what I think must be responsible for the sudden blurring of my vision. Not until I notice that my cheeks are dry do I realise that utter fury at the man's gall for pretending nothing is wrong, is responsible for this effect.

Oh, well. 

If you want to make a game of this, Isaac, I'm up for it. Just remember, Lucca the Great never loses.

   "Hiya, babe," I call back with the same impish, suggestive twist that my reply always contains. This has been our tradition for the last three years. I just hope he's too distracted by his own thoughts to notice that the greeting came from the living room instead of my workshop, as is more normal.

I hear footsteps approaching, so I slide off the couch and turn to pick up my book. As I'm straightening up again, I feel a lean, muscled arm wrap around me from behind, and a warm mouth raining a trail of kisses down the side of my neck.

   "I've missed you," he murmurs, presumably as an explanation when, after several seconds, I have made no effort to reciprocate, but just stood numbly still, half of me basking in his caresses and half of me seething bitterly and itching to put a vicious end to his desire by ripping off his bits and stewing them, then feeding the result to Ariana Harland.

   "I'm sure you hardly even noticed I was gone," I toss at him over my shoulder, pulling away half-heartedly.    

   "I always notice when you're gone." 

He sounds nearly hurt. 

I am unmoved, knowing as I do that the only thing he likely noticed was that the woman warming his bed was a different one than usual. Still, although I'm unmoved by his empty words of complete and utter bullshit, I am not so indifferent to the arm wrapping more tightly around my waist, the hand sliding slowly up under my shirt, and the warm breath against the back of my hair.

Damn you, hormones. I was looking forward to making life miserable for him for a while.

Still, it's hard to even hold onto annoyance when he sucks my earlobe into his mouth and flicks it with his tongue. 

Almost against my will, my hands slide up into his thick, dark hair, and I lean back against his chest, letting my head fall back against his shoulder.

Okay, you bastard, you win for now.

   "After all," he murmurs fatally, "a man gets lonely."

I freeze, and pause in the intended act of kissing his neck. Yeah, that was about what I needed to restore my resolve to make you suffer, my dear, loving husband.

I pull away more insistently this time, but Isaac is not deterred so easily.

   "What's wrong?" he pouts, tightening his grip on my waist and nimbly pushing my white cotton bra (I'm proud to say that I have the good taste that seems to be getting rarer and rarer these days) out of his way.

Furious now, I wrack my brains for a way to deter him long enough to give me a little time to think. Finally, just as he's tugging my sweater up over my head, it hits me, and I wheel about and hurl myself at him so suddenly that we both fall to the floor. 

   "Let's have a baby," I breathe in his ear, working at the button on his pants.

As predicted, he goes still for a second, then sits up and pushes me off of him less gently than one might think is appropriate during a romantic tryst. 

Hah! _Nothing_ can kill my husband's sex drive quite like being reminded that sex leads to children! 

   "Lucca," he says gently – patronizingly, if you want the truth, "what brought this on?"

I ponder this for a moment. After all, I can't exactly tell him the truth. _I wanted you to get your grubby hands off me before I catch something from one of your mistresses, you asshole, and since you don't seem to recognize anyone's needs but yours, I had to go to an extreme._ Heh. No. 

   "I don't know," I finally reply, looking carefully away.

   "Well, then, why don't we just...think about it for a while?"

Such an accommodating husband. He won't flat-out refuse his wife anything; he'll just ask me to 'take a while to think about it' and hope that I'm weak-minded enough to forget what I was thinking about.

   "I guess it can wait," I sigh, so entirely reluctantly that you'd never guess that I'd sooner drive a nail through my eye than give birth right now. Not that I've never thought of adopting, but children bore me until they're old enough to talk and run around. I'd be a better auntie, or big sister, or something. Still, I'm seeing an excellent opportunity to both deter Isaac from his sudden need to remember how his wife compares with his little blonde play toy, and provide a little light torment as a warm-up. "But you know, Isaac, we're not getting any younger."

   "You're hardly over-the-hill yet," he laughs. "You're only twenty-four, Lucca. There's plenty of time to think about that later."

   "Yeah, well, what about you, old man?" I ask, giving him a playful poke in the ribs.

He catches my hand and moves it away.

   "I'm only twenty-nine," he reminds me acidly, and I hide my smirk of satisfaction at having annoyed him under a mask of contriteness. "Anyway," he continues, "the point is that we have plenty of time down the road to think about throwing away our freedom on eighteen years of thankless slave labour to a bundle of noise, commotion, and selfish urges." 

_Well, we've already got one in the house; you just wouldn't be the_ only _one anymore._

I'm very proud that I manage to bite that rather telling sentence off before I can utter it.

   "I guess you're right," I sigh, stretching out on the rug next to him.

He lays back, relief that I have dropped the issue clear in his expression. He closes his eyes, and I take the opportunity to examine his face.

He looks good.

Very relaxed. Clean-shaven, dark eyebrows neatly plucked – Isaac is about the only man I know who would ever consider doing something like that; I've always thought it was kind of cute – a hint of a spicy cologne aftershave hanging about him.

Then he opens his eyes and looks up at me curiously. I continue to stare down at him, searching his eyes for any hint of guilt. Before I can decide whether what I see is guilt or merely evasion, he laughs.

   "You look like you're trying to read my mind."

   "Oh, yeah. Didn't I tell you?" I ask pertly. "I'm psychic."

   "Really. So, what am I thinking about right now?"

I feel something slam harshly into my stomach – metaphorically, anyway. This is the realization that I could have Isaac trapped right where I want him, if I were so inclined. I could wall him in so neatly and sweetly that he would have no idea he was being trapped until he'd admitted to not only his own crimes, but to those of everyone in the surrounding neighbourhood. All it would take is a simple 'a young woman is on your mind…I see long, fair hair and big blue eyes…initials are A.H….she's goddamned rich…from what I can see, she's perfect in every way…hell, I'D have slept with her!' 

On second though, maybe the subtle approach would be better. A little jab without giving him reason to suspect that I know anything.

   "There is something weighing heavily on your mind…some dark secret," I tell him, still gazing deeply into his eyes and trying to make my voice sound spooky and mysterious.

He blinks once or twice, then laughs again. Is it my imagination, or does it sound a little forced.

   "Don't be silly, Lucca. There's nothing on my mind."

We're both silent for a moment, and then, as the completely unintentional implications of his words hit me I explode into laughter.

Now, I'm willing to admit that I am as likely to suffer a nervous breakdown as anyone else. Under enough strain, I'm sure that I'm as prone to hysterics as any other woman. And I'd say that the last two days count abundantly as strain.

Certainly, my laughter right now must be more than a little wild, because before I know it, I've rolled over onto my back, tears streaming down my cheeks, from mirth for the first time, and Isaac has me by the shoulders, shaking me.

   "Lucca!" he calls sharply.

Taking in a shaky breath, I try to sit up, wobble a little, and fall back against his arm, which he has considerately placed behind my back.

   "What?" I ask nonchalantly, as though breaking down into hysterical laughter to the point of tears is something that I do several times a day, and he's a fool not to know this.

   "Are you okay?" he asks slowly, running one hand soothingly through my hair and continuing to peer at me in deepest concern.

   "Yeah, yeah, fine," I assure him hastily, now regretting my outburst.

   "I think that trip from Porre might have been too much for you. And you've been working way too hard lately."

I shake my head, batting his arm away impatiently.

   "Of course I haven't! And Porre's only a half-day's trip away."

   "You have to know your limits, love," he says gently, preparing to stand. "I'll tell you what: I'm going to take you upstairs and run you a nice, warm bubble bath. Then you're going to go to bed, and I'm going to make sure you stay there."

   "Hey, wait a second-"

He gives me no further chance to protest, and the next moment, the world is knocked off balance as he sweeps me into his arms and carries me unceremoniously up the stairs, despite my protests.

And protest I do.

I am proud to announce that I do not make this sort of macho behaviour easy for my husband. With all the squirming and twisting, I'm lucky I didn't set him off balance and send us both down the stairs toward impending injury.

Still, the recollection that I've forgotten to eat since yesterday at about nine-thirty in the morning, beyond a ridiculous quantity of alcohol and the few bites of Marle's gift of chocolate cake that I didn't splatter all over the floor, finally hits me along with a wave of exhaustion, and suddenly it seems like far more effort than it's worth to fight off this man with his infuriating tendency to think he knows what's best for me.

Before I know it, and almost with no idea how it came about, I'm in our decent-sized bathtub, up to my eyebrows in soapy, bubble-filled water that smells faintly of peaches and faintly of cinnamon. And faintly of raspberry. And faintly of citrus. And faintly of rose. And faintly of lilac.

I see.

It's the use-up-the-last-half-inch-of-twelve-different-bubble-baths-so-you-can-throw-out-the-bottles trick. Very clever.

Unfortunately, I've never been crazy about heavy perfumes, and before I know it, the blend of scents is making my head pound horribly. Combined with the soothing effect of warm water, it seems like a better and better idea to let my muscles take a break, slide into the water, and never be seen again. 

Well, until Isaac broke down the door (which I made a point to lock the second he left) and found me scuba diving without any gear, in the worst possible place.

I'm sure Ariana would be there to help him over the grief of losing his wife to her own stupidity.

This thought makes me so furious that I resolutely drag myself out of the water and wrap myself in a thick, soft, navy blue towel. Once reasonably dry, I open the door.

I'm still not quite sure what makes me take extra care to do it in complete silence.

In the hallway overlooking the front entry, I hear something odd. My husband is at the front door, talking to someone in hushed, agitated tones.

   "I know what I said, but now really isn't a good time for me! My wife's pretending she isn't feeling well, and she's expecting me to take care of her," he hisses to the mysterious visitor.

I grit my teeth, but remain silent.

From my vantage point, where I can watch the scene, as yet unnoticed, I hear a feminine voice say something. Is it just my imagination, or does it sound faintly wobbly with tears?

Resolutely hardening my heart toward this mysterious visitor (it doesn't take a genius to know who it is), I silently cross the hallway and enter our bedroom. Then, comb in hand, I proceed to seethe bitterly about what I've just witnessed: that Isaac would actually stoop to telling such lies to paint me as a selfish, demanding shrew, and that the little whore would have the nerve to show up here right now. 

Does she think she's got him that firmly by the balls already?

_Does_ she have him that firmly by the balls already?

Damn it…how long has this been going on?

I am distracted both from my ponderings and from the act of tugging the comb through my hair, by the bedroom door opening.

   "Hi," Isaac says warmly, crossing the room to the dressing table (allegedly mine, but of infinitely more use to him) and hugs me from behind, resting his chin on my shoulder. "Feel better?"

   "Much," I reply cheerfully. After all, it _is_ true. When you're where I was, there's really not far left to fall.

He pulls the comb from my hand.

   "Here, let me do that." 

With a shrug that tries its hardest not to be resentful, I acquiesce. I must admit, it feels awfully nice. 

In addition to his many other, dare I say, useless talents, my husband seems to be a skilled hair stylist. 

Wisely, I keep this observation to myself.

I doubt he'd thank me for it, and I don't want to give him another reason to feel hurt and abused and justified in running to his other woman.

It seems, though, that I don't have to worry about it.

A moment later, he sets the comb down on the dresser, pulls me to my feet, and removes my towel. Then, just as I'm reflecting that things seem to be getting good, he goes over to the dresser, pulls out a nightgown, and takes the liberty of pulling it on over my head.

Of course, he chooses the most hideous one I own. This old flannel thing that I don't even wear unless I'm sick with the flu. 

Then he pushes me gently toward the bed and takes even further liberties in – get this – actually tucking me in.

   "I'm sorry, love," he murmurs mid-tuck. "I've got to run out and see someone."

Indeed! And who might this be? Suddenly his psychology in putting me in this flannel thing makes sense. The less appealing he makes me, the less guilty he feels about buggering off to spend time with the other girl. After all, he _is_ an artist, with a keen sense of beauty. What a load of garbage. It's a shame he can't see the pile of shit that is his own soul.

Nevertheless, I manage to keep my burning resentment internalized rather well, considering. I merely smile sleepily at him and, after yanking off the nightgown and dropping it beside the bed (I think I'm allowed that much), give my pillow a sleepy snuggle just for effect. 

He gives a fond laugh, lightly brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, and exits the room.

The second the sound of his footsteps grows faint and the door clicks shut behind him, I leap out of bed and dress hurriedly. 

I know it's not going to help anything, but I have to know if he really is going to see her again.

I think a part of me already knows the answer.

===================================================================

A/N: Thanks again to anyone who's still reading! 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Like I said before, I know that what I'm doing is stupid and pointless. I know it isn't going to help me, or him, or her. I know I'm wasting my time. Take that as you will.

Still, here I am, staring through the window of a ground-level room the side of Truce's inn. 

I continue to watch as they stand in the middle of the room, facing each other, him staring at her in a horror that I know him too well to believe is completely genuine, as she talks hurriedly about something. 

I can't tear myself away as she swipes away the tears streaming down her cheeks, or as he steps closer and wraps his arms around her, or as she buries her face in his shoulder, or even as he begins to stroke her hair gently.

I hear the sounds of people passing, likely wondering what the hell that crazy Lucca is doing now, but I don't care.

Mostly because he's unbuttoning her sweater, and she's looking for the zip on his pants.

Good God, you two, have you ever heard of putting down the fucking blind? 

Suddenly, illogically, the thing about this that makes me the most furious is that Isaac would do something like this in a small town where everyone knows everyone, and makes it their business to know everyone else's. How could he parade around town with this mysterious blonde in tow? Does he have any regard for public opinion? That in and of itself would be hilarious coming from me any other time, but right now, laughing at me, even in good fun, would be suicide.

By now, they've stopped flinging clothing aside, and are gazing deeply at each other. Then their mouths meet, and I turn away, unable to watch any more.

Now, there is an old proverb that states quite clearly that just when things can no longer possibly get any worse, they will. Or maybe it's not a proverb. Maybe it's an old saying, a fortune cookie, or a greeting card. Whatever the hell it is, I've always had a healthy respect for it. After all, I've had reason to.

But my grim knowledge that this law is so increases fourfold when, upon turning from the window and crawling out of the flower garden right beneath it, the first thing my eyes light upon is a tall, imposing figure, blue hair falling past his shoulders.

Magus. 

Great. 

From the way he's got himself done up – obviously he's thought about the fact that the people of Truce don't remember him kindly for the most part – I almost don't recognize him under the remarkably normal dark pants and shirt and long coat. And sunglasses.

Leave it to him to add some artsy, pretentious touch to an otherwise fairly tasteful get-up.

Oh, well. I guess without his cape, he needed some ridiculous accessory to fill its place.

Men.

However, back to the point, the posture of crossed arms, weight shifted apathetically to one foot, peering down at me with that same expression of disgust and curiosity as last night – as well as something else that I'm way too exhausted to try to analyze now, but I could almost swear that it was a shred of compassion – is far too definitively Magus for him to be anyone else.

   "I'm glad to see that you've sobered up, although I did doubt it when I found you playing in the dirt," he says with a hint of a smile.

   "It's nice to see you, too," I grin back weakly, struggling to my feet and swiping at the dirt sprinkled over my knees.

   "Come on," he says, taking my arm and leading me around to the front of the in and onto the sidewalk. "Since you're so damn stubborn about keeping this knowledge to yourself, you shouldn't let your husband find you engaging in voyeurism."

   "Right," I sigh. "So, what in the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

He gives an irritated grumble.

   "Crono and Marle came to have a word with me. When you said you took the Epoch out to get out of Truce last night, they assumed that you'd gone to see "one of the old group," as Marle put it." Here, he smirks. "When Glenn, Ayla, and Robo all told them you hadn't been to visit, they took a shot in the dark and came to ask me."

I blink.

   "So? How did that lead to you being here?"

He sighs, rolling his eyes.

   "It seems that Marle has either been doing some research, or has a very low opinion of your husband. She either knew that he would be going to see this woman tonight and that you'd follow, or simply assumed it. Either way, they're both going to a banquet tonight, and they asked me to wait around in case you needed someone to talk to," he concludes in disgust.

   "Oh, great," I say, feeling something slip out of place in my mind. I think it's my patience with men in general. "Well, I don't need your reluctant pity, so piss off, okay?"

I don't look back, and until I reach my front door and notice a shadow looming over me, I assume that he's taken me at my word and given up philanthropy in favour of rotting in that castle of his. 

I turn around with a weary sigh.

   "What do you want?"

   "Honestly?"

I throw my hands up in exasperation.

   "Please!"

   "I want to get the hell out of this town and away from you and your marital crisis. I _don't_ want any more trouble from Crono and Marle about this. That means I have to stay here and help you whether I want to or-"

This is the last I hear before I slam the door shut behind me, effectively cutting him off.

An annoyed rap at the door sounds not three seconds later.

   Furious, I yank the door open.

   "Look, asshole," I begin, glaring up at him. "I've had a long day. If you want to come in and talk, that's great. Even though I seriously doubt it. But if you're just going to sit there and grumble that you have better things to be doing, I don't need it. So please, don't waste your precious time. Or my precious time."

His jaw tightens slightly, and I'm fairly certain that his eyes are narrowing behind his sunglasses. Hey, you do realize it's about eight in the evening and the sun's been down for an hour, right?

   "Fine," he says coolly. "I didn't knock again to push the issue."

   "Then why?" I ask wearily.

   "I believe this is yours?"

For the first time, I notice that he has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. More specifically, _my_ duffel bag.

Oops. 

I guess I left it behind this morning.

   "Thanks," I sigh, snatching from him. "Anything else?"

Magus, who has already turned and started quickly down the walk, turns back briefly.

   "No."

   "Great," I call after him, sarcastically cheerful. "See ya."

I close the door behind him with an emphatic slam, hoping that he gets the message loud and clear that he's pissed me off, and by far the more unlikely, that he feels at least somewhat bad. 

I'm living in a dream world, aren't I? 

I wish.

_Okay, dream, you've made your point. You can let me wake up now._

Still, since I know I won't be waking up until I've been asleep first, and right now sleep and the glorious unawareness it brings seems like the most appealing thing in the world, I trudge wearily up the stairs, into our bedroom, throw my clothes haphazardly all over the place (Isaac hates when I do that), and climb into bed, pausing first to scowl at the flannel nightgown, still on the floor. I can almost feel it grinning up at me, repeating over and over that even without it, I'll never look like that other woman, and I shouldn't waste my time trying.

I think I'll burn it.

Sighing, I lie back against the pillows and try to decide which of my pet projects I'll continue work on tomorrow. I haven't done a thing in the past four days aside from my three hours of work today during which I almost burnt down the house, and I think I'm beginning to go into withdrawal. 

And, of course, the unawareness that can come with burying oneself wholeheartedly in work can be almost as good as the unawareness that can come with sleeping.

I try unsuccessfully to stifle a huge yawn.

Speaking of sleep…

I never was sure what time Isaac came in that night.

====================================================================

   "Shit!"

This loudly bellowed profanity is accompanied by a deafening clang.

The sound makes me feel better, even though bouncing a wrench off the concrete floor of my workshop with all my might does neither the wrench nor the floor any good.

A fifth failed attempt to get the damn thing to work.

Repairing a toaster really shouldn't be this difficult, particularly after an entire morning of good, solid work went without a hitch. 

Hey, I'd like to think I have a good excuse. I'm not at my most brilliant after a night of five hours of sleep, punctuated with nightmare after nightmare after nightmare, and the ridiculous urge to stay awake after each one for fear that my husband, resting peaceful, warm, and contented at my side, might disappear suddenly.

Marle would probably say it would be just as well for me if he did.

But then again, Marle has never been where I am.

And I don't just mean the fact that even if she did opt for the grease-spattered jeans and equally destroyed old men's flannel shirt that I am currently modelling to the fly crawling contentedly up the wall, she probably wouldn't opt to spend her time trying to repair and improve the old-as-the-hills mechanical gadgets of all varieties that have become my hobby when I can't make myself focus properly on anything else.

Turning my thoughts away from Marle before an uncontrollable and utterly unreasonable resentment against her for the very fact that she can't possibly know what I'm going through can take hold, I heave a long sigh and stoop to pick up the wrench.

Unfortunately, I forget to come back up.

And before you even ask, no, I don't burst into tears for the zillionth (okay, fourth) time in the last three days. I simply fall the rest of the way to the floor and sit there, on the grey cement, staring blankly at my wrench, trying to figure out exactly how one goes about the task of standing up.

Then, as a shiver runs through me, I drag myself back up, sternly telling myself that the last thing I need right now is to get a horrible cold from a nap on a freezing cement floor.

This momentous task accomplished, I turn back to my toaster.

Of course, the damn thing doesn't work any better now than it did before.

Damn. 

I'd hoped that maybe I'd have scared it into working with my temper tantrum.

I swipe angrily at a strand of hair that dances irritatingly about my nose, and then glower at nothing in particular at the knowledge that I now have an attractive grease smear across my nose and forehead. I guess fixing your hair after handling an eternally grease-smeared wrench is a bad idea.

Maybe I'll tell people it's war-paint.

_I'm on a crusade to rid the world of little blonde whores who can't be content with their own husbands, so they feel the need to screw other women's husbands, too, Mom._

Grumbling about all the lovely and horrendously violent things I'd like to do to almost everyone I know, deserving or not, I put the wrench down on my workbench next to the toaster, give that same toaster the most deathly glare I can muster (all the more deathly at the knowledge that a toaster really doesn't care what I think of it), and decide a few things on my way out of the workshop. 

The first is that even repairing household appliances is going to be beyond me right now. Maybe I should just leave the toaster to its own devices.

The second is that there's no way I can stay in the house and amuse myself for hours, just knowing that an even worse ordeal awaits when Isaac gets back in from work. And it's close to one o' clock, anyway. Thus, I'm going out for lunch.

The third decision is that there's no way I'm leaving the house the way I look now.

===================================================================

Twenty minutes, a hot shower, and a fresh change of clothes later, I'm ready to conquer the world. 

Well, maybe not. For now, I think I'll leave world conquest to those arrogant enough to think they could handle it. 

Why does Magus immediately pop to mind? 

Whatever. 

Either way, I may not be ready to lead an army throughout the world, leaving destruction and chaos in my wake, but I am ready to leave the house and conduct myself in a reasonably controlled and ladylike manner in public.

Let's take baby-steps here, okay?

The walk into town is nice, to say the least. The abundance of trees in the area are changing from green to an array of gold, red, and orange and covering the ground. The air is crisp and still, and the entire world seems to be getting ready to sleep. It's cold – a lot cooler than it was last week, and I can see my breath in white puffs before me, although it's not cold enough that I need to think about dragging out the ol' parka yet. Just cold enough that I don't feel all hot and sweaty after a half hour walk. 

Yeah, this is why I'm a scientist instead of a poet.

Anyway, I continue to walk, and as I approach the tavern, I nearly manage to forget about everything that's happened in the last few days, my mind wandering from my atrocious attempt at poetic description to a new project that Dad and I talked about starting on our way back from Porre, to some changes I've been planning for months to make around the house.

This thought has just begun to give way to thoughts of Isaac, which can lead to no good right now, and destroy the careful work I've done cheering myself up, when a series of sniffles and muffled sobs reach my ears.

Okay; now, I'm as selfish as the next person, and I've got my own problems right now. So you can blame it completely on nosiness that makes me glance over my shoulder at the source of the crying.

What I see makes me freeze in my tracks and go alternately hot and cold, trembling ever so slightly.

A tall blonde girl is leaning heavily against the fence surrounding the weapon shop, her left hand tightened around the iron bar until her knuckles are white. It only takes me a moment to realize that the way her right arm is dangling limply at her side isn't exactly healthy. Neither is the blood smeared across her face, or the vicious-looking cut at the corner of her mouth, or the deep bruise over her left eye and cheekbone.

But here's the kicker. 

I've seen this girl before.

I'm fairly sure I'm not mistaken about this.

It's pretty hard to forget the girl who was, just last night, in Truce's only inn, divesting my husband of his marriage vows and his pants.

Ariana Harland. Oh, shit.

Now what the hell do I do? Haven't I wanted to cover this woman with bruises and bumps and worse for the last two days? Haven't I been dying to see her face streaked with blood and tears, just like this, since I found out that she and I have dangerously similar taste in men? Or 'man', rather? Haven't I been wishing to personally draw such sobs of anguish from her throat?

I should walk away right now, pretending just like everyone else in town seems to be doing, that I don't notice her there.

That's what I'll do; I'll ignore her.

As I tell myself this over and over in a soothing chant, I've left the path leading up to the tavern, and started down the sidewalk to the weapon shop.

   "Excuse me," I call tentatively once I'm a few feet away from her.

She looks up, startled, tears swimming in huge blue eyes.

Damn. Of course she's got to have beautiful eyes and thick, dark eyelashes that no blonde should be allowed, too, right?

   "Are you okay?" I continue after a few moments.

   "Uh, yeah," she replies in a soft voice, hoarse with sobs. "Thanks."

   "Are you sure? You don't look too good. Maybe you should see a doctor?"

For some reason, this suggestion seems to alarm her.

   "No! I mean, I'm fine, really."

I roll my eyes impatiently.

   "You are not fine," I inform her sternly. "Your nose is bleeding like a faucet – or something – that bruise looks really bad, and I think your arm is broken."

I see that I've done my work a little too thoroughly when she turns a definite shade of green and begins to sway unsteadily.

   "I-I really can't go to the doctor here," she tells me in that same soft voice, but the set of her jaw reminds me oddly of something. I'm sure I've worn that same expression when being particularly stubborn about something. 

   "Hey, that's fine," I assure her. "Will you at least come home with me and – " Here, I stop short. I can't take her home! She'll recognize the house, and everything will fall apart! "I mean, I'll take you to my parents' house and get you fixed up there. I'd take you to my house, but it's a little far," I conclude with a nervous laugh.

She smiles faintly.

   "So, you're not from Truce?"

I gawk at her for a minute. She's dripping blood all over the sidewalk, everyone who passes makes a point to stare at us – particularly her – and she's trying to make small talk! 

   "Uh, I live in Porre," I tell her, latching onto a convincing lie. "Let's go."

   "Well," she says hesitantly. "I guess I don't have a lot of a choice. Thank you…um…"

   "Lu-Lucy," I blurt out, inwardly kicking myself for picking my absolute least favourite name of all time. Besides Clementine, that is. How could anyone subject an innocent baby to a name like that?

   "Lucy," she repeats. "I'm Ariana."

   "That's pretty," I say, taking her arm and leading her gently down the street.

Well! 

This is shaping up to be some day, isn't it? 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

By the time we reach home, as I still can't get out of the habit of thinking of the solitary house on the small island surrounded by cliffs and the crash of waves and connected to the rest of Truce only by a bridge, Ariana is leaning weakly against my shoulder, and I'm doing all I can to keep a tight enough hold around her waist that I don't lose her.

The conversation, as one might expect, has been rather stilted, but I have found out a few things. She was born in a large city several hundred miles away, and has recently moved to the small town of Cowan, about a half-hour drive from here. 

I think I've been to Cowan. It's nice. Of course, I'll never be able to visit again without wondering bitterly why it can't keep its gorgeous blondes to itself.

Not that she's looking her best right now. She's pale – I wonder briefly if maybe she hasn't had enough time to go buy more makeup, after hers got eaten by the neighbour's cat – she has a dark circle under the eye that isn't bruised (well, presumably under the one that is bruised, as well), and she's dressed in grey from head to toe. Red obviously suits her much better.

All in all, I'm beginning to wonder if my imagination exaggerated her looks a little, and can't help gloating to myself, wondering what Isaac would think if he saw his golden haired goddess looking so drab and pale.

Also, I'm beginning to develop suspicions of my own as to who did this to her, as when I asked if she was married, she developed this expression like a little rabbit startled by a gunshot, and changed the subject.

As another pained whimper escapes her, I tighten my hold on her waist and steer her more quickly toward the front door.

Hopefully, Mom and Dad won't ask too many questions.

==================================================================

It appears that luck is for once on my side; when we enter the house, we find it empty, and I am free to steer Ariana, who is now heroically sniffling back tears, to the kitchen table while I hunt up the medical kit. 

Now, where did Dad keep it?

Oh, right.

Five minutes later, I emerge from Dad's very messy workshop, triumphantly bearing the first aid kit. 

After all, accidents can happen.

And to Dad, they do. A lot.

It must be in the blood. Ashtear = disastrous accidents of every description.

As I enter the kitchen, I cringe inwardly at the sight of the girl slumped over the table, now sobbing unabashedly.

I have no idea how to deal with her emotional breakdown.

I can't even deal with my own. 

Social work is obviously the wrong field for me.

   "Hey, I found the first aid kit," I tell her with grating cheerfulness.

She lifts her head and smiles a watery smile as I pull out a chair, sit down next to her, and proceed to examine her wrist. Yup. Definitely broken.

   "This is probably gonna hurt," I warn her, taking her wrist carefully in my hands. "Do you want a spoon to bite down on?"

Ariana, who has been suppressing a shudder at my warning, now looks abruptly up at me.

   "A spoon?"

   "So you don't bite your tongue by accident," I clarify.

   "No, that's okay," she tells me weakly, cringing and looking pointedly away.

Several minutes later, I've succeeded in setting her wrist and bandaging it tightly. Yeah, I'm pretty amazing, all right. What normal girl could possibly find the time to research the wide variety of topics I've got on the go (although telling you what any of them are could be quite the feat), invent a wide variety of things that don't work anyway, fix every mechanical gizmo that goes haywire in Truce and the surrounding area, conspire against her cheating dung heap of a husband, tell off a moody arrogant bastard of a wizard, and still have time to master the proper way to set broken bones and take care of other medical issues?

Like I say, Ashtear = disastrous accidents. I learned in self-defence, for both my own good and my father's good. 

As Ariana sits at the kitchen table, breathing harshly with the force of her pain, I hurry to a certain little cabinet that I remember from the New Year's parties we used to have with some uncles and aunts from out of town. Apparently, when my family gets together, drinking happens.

Geez, I'm beginning to think it's genetic. Of course, since two days ago was the last time I touched the stuff in four years (when the last time you got drunk resulted in your marriage, you're pretty careful about doing it again), I may be worrying about nothing.

Either way, when I set the small glass full of whiskey in front of Ariana, she gives me this limp little smile and shakes her head no. 

I sigh, exasperated.

   "Look, your wrist obviously hurts, and you seem pretty hysterical to me. Would you just stop being stubborn and drink the stuff?"

   "I…I don't really like whiskey," she confesses. "Could you put it in a cup of tea?"

As the simple brilliance of this idea hits me, I wonder why I haven't been drinking whiskey-laced tea for the last two days.

   "No problem," I beam. "One Tea n' Whiskey Special comin' up. You hungry at all?"

After glancing down at her wrist and turning slightly green, Ariana shakes her head a more decisive no. 

   "Oh, right," I say with a grimace, turning from the stove.

We're both silent for a moment. Then, lifting her head, she calls softly,

   "Lucy?"

   "Yeah?" I call back.

   "Why are you doing this?"  
I think for a moment.

   "You mean, dragging a strange, bleeding woman home in the middle of the day?"

   "Yeah," she agrees with something that might pass for a laugh. "That."

I shrug.

   "Honestly, because no one else seemed to want to do it. I have a code about things like this."

   "That's really sweet of you," she says, shooting me a smile that makes me almost understand Isaac's motivation in sleeping with this girl.

   "After all," I continue, "as a citizen of Truce, I can't have people bleeding all over our freshly painted fences."

Unexpectedly, she laughs. A real laugh this time.

After filling her teacup to half-full, I pick up the shot of whiskey and dump it in.

   "You take milk or sugar?"

   "Not with whiskey," she giggles.

   "So," I say, suddenly sober as I sit down next to her, "are you going to tell me what happened to you?"

She gives me this look like a deer caught in the headlights, and I know that she won't. Thus, my astonishment can only be imagined when she sighs and starts talking.

   "My…my husband found out that I'm seeing someone."

_To a lifetime of love and happiness_ suddenly flashes into my brain, and I am caught between sympathy for this unknown man who is currently suffering exactly what I am, and disgust that a man could do this to his wife, regardless of the provocation. Of course, I was thinking very hard about doing the same to my dear husband, but that's different. How? Don't ask me. Maybe it's not different at all. Maybe it's just a double standard. Maybe I'm just as much of a sack of shit as the unknown cuckolded. After all, it's the thought that counts.

As all these thoughts hit me in rapid succession, I feel the blood drain slowly from my face, and I wobble a little in my seat.

   "Lucy!" 

Ariana's alarmed cry brings me back to the present, and I'm startled that her face is inches from mine. The idiot's gotten up out of her chair, after I told her about a zillion or so times to stay still, and is kneeling in front of me, shaking my shoulders.

   "Lucy, what is it? You've gone white! You look like you're going to be sick!"

   "No, no, I'm fine," I assure her, not exactly regaining composure, but seizing it by force. "I-I just…wouldn't have asked you if I'd known it was something like that. Sorry."

   "That's okay," she says, returning to her chair and flashing me another of her damned perfect, adorable smiles with the half of her mouth that isn't cut and swelling. "I don't know why, but I feel like…I don't mind you knowing. Can I tell you about him?"

   "Your husband?" I ask, knowing full well who 'him' is. And for the record, it is _not_ her husband.

   "No," she says, flushing slightly as her eyes grow dreamy. "My…well, my boyfriend."

   "Go ahead. I like these kind of juicy stories."

She giggles, and then launches right in.

   "He's…amazing. He's got this dark hair, and these eyes that you could just drown in."

   "Sounds kind of dangerous."

   "Oh, I think Isaac could be very dangerous, if he wanted to," she admits with a grin, her blush growing brighter.

_No kidding,_ I think behind the requisite understanding, patronizing "that's-so-cute-she's-in-love" smile. _He's completely destroyed me._

She continues.

   "He's a philosopher, and an artist, and he's really sensitive and creative. He's got a real artistic temperament."

_If you had to live with it, it might not look so great,_ I don't say out loud for obvious reasons.  

   "And he's so off-beat! He's always doing these crazy things, and he doesn't care who looks at him funny when we're out together."

_When he's already got their attention by gallivanting to the one place in Truce he could go, with a woman who isn't his wife, he hasn't got a lot of credibility left to lose._

   "He's so passionate. No matter what he's talking about, he gets so excited."

_That's because he never talks about anything that isn't one of his pet interests,_ I think, all the experience of four years behind me.

Apparently, my expression is as bitter as my thoughts, for Ariana's sunny expression disappears, and she sighs.

   "You think I'm horrible, don't you?"

   "Why?" I ask, honestly astonished.

   "Because I'm sleeping with a married man."

   "It happens all the time," I sigh. "I don't think you're horrible, Ariana."

And the funny thing is, I don't. Despite everything else, I don't think I could hate this girl if I wanted to.

We're both silent for a long moment. Then, suddenly, she speaks again.

   "She's a bitch, you know."

   "Who?"

   "His wife."

I conceal a wince with great difficulty, and I'm immensely proud that I'm able to speak normally.

   "Who told you that? Have you met her?"

   "No, but Isaac told me she is."

I smirk.

   "Ariana, the man you're sleeping with is hardly a reliable source when it comes to his wife."

   "Why do you say that? He knows her better than anyone!"

   "I think you'd be surprised," I mutter sourly.

   "What?"

   "Oh…nothing," I assure her. "Drink your tea. The colder it gets, the less it masks the whiskey."

Shooting me one final suspicious look, she lifts her cup and gulps down the contents so quickly, I'm worried she'll pass out once she's done.

   "She nags him all the time," Ariana continues. "Never gives him a moment of peace."

Nags…I don't do that, do I?

   "And she smothers him. He's brilliant, but she holds him down. She doesn't have any respect for his artistic temperament."

Now, this is true. But, as I say, it's only because I know what it's like to live with Isaac's "artistic temperament." It's kind of like living with my "scientific genius". In other words, hell on earth. It's really nice to have something to blame every glaring personality flaw on. It's just not so nice when you have to live with it. 

Not only this, but I've never noticed Isaac having any "artistic" attached to the "temperament". 

   "And I'll bet she's really ugly, too," Ariana continues with as much spite in her tone as she can muster. Which isn't much. 

   "That would explain why her husband started playing the field again," I shrug before I can stop myself and think that maybe that wasn't the most tactful thing to say.

Ariana stares at me for a minute.

   "No, Lucy, it wasn't like that. _Isaac's_ not like that. He said he fell for me when he was visiting Cowan one day for supplies."

Supplies. I'm sure. We _do_ have supplies in Truce, after all. Suddenly, I wonder how many other women are in the picture, too. Hey, Ariana and I might end up comforting each other when Isaac runs off with a gorgeous redhead.

   "He came into the shop where I work, and he spent the entire afternoon talking to me! I think the customers were getting annoyed, and my boss was furious – he threatened to throw him out – but we met after my shift and had dinner."

   "And then?"

   "And then…he asked if he could see me again."

   "Oh, I thought you might have taken a visit to an inn after," I say, throwing just the right amount of mischief into my tone to take the sting out of the words.

Ariana blushes brightly.

   "Oh, no. We didn't make love until our fifth date. Isaac says he would never, ever make love right away with someone he really cared about."

A smash fills the kitchen. I stare, not really registering anything, at the shattered remains of my teacup on the floor. Horrifyingly, I feel a lump, which started gathering right after I found out how much my husband really hates me, dissolving rapidly in my throat. 

I will _not_ cry in front of her!

So, I cover up with a feigned coughing fit of epic proportions…whoever would be sad enough to write an epic about a coughing fit. 

   "Excuse me," I choke out before bolting from the kitchen.

Once away, I rush, on impulse, up the stairs to my right, into my old room – for some reason, Mom and Dad kept it exactly as it was – and fling myself down on my old bed, cuddling my pillow. It still smells as much like motor oil as ever.

It's good to be home.

After heroically swallowing back the crazy urge to sob into my pillow for the remainder of the afternoon, I climb shakily to my feet and start towards the door.

Of course, my good luck chooses to give out at just this point, and I nearly collide with my mother on my way out.

   "I thought you might be in here," Mom says with an expression that manages to be exasperated, amused, sympathetic, and tender, all at once. 

I nearly lose it then and there.

   "The girl in the kitchen told me that my daughter, _Lucy_, had gone upstairs," she finishes, eyeing me suspiciously. 

   "Um…"

   "Lucca, what's going on?" 

   "Well…"

   "Your friend told me that you started choking, and ran away. The girl isn't stupid, you know. I think she realized you were faking it."

   "Um…"

   "You've said that one, dear," she says tranquilly. "Well, come on. You can't leave your friend alone, in _my_ kitchen, for too long. I'll see if we have any cookies in the freezer, and you make another pot of tea. Then we can all get to know each other."

I try to make another one of my current brilliant speeches, but Mom just turns around and sweeps down the stairs so grandly, I'm ashamed that her daughter is letting herself fall apart like this.

With a concentrated effort, I straighten up and start downstairs. 

It seems I've gotten there too late, as Ariana is nowhere in sight. The teacups and saucers, as well as the shot glass I used for the whiskey, are carefully piled at the edge of the sink, and a little slip of paper, faintly pink with a border of green vines and leaves and a red rose in each corner, rests on the table.

Blinking in surprise, I pick it up.

            _Dear Lucy,_ it begins.

_Your mom told me you weren't feeling well, so I thought I'd better leave. I'm sorry we didn't get to talk longer. You're a really nice person, and I could use a friend right now. Do you think you'd like to meet me for coffee sometime? I work at the little medicine shop on Cowan's main street. Come by and see me when you can._

                                                                                                _Ariana_

Damn it. Why the hell does she have to be so sweet?

And why the hell does my mother have to be so smart?  
   "Sit down, Lucca," she commands from behind me, in a tone that brooks no argument. 

   "But Ariana left," I inform her, all innocence. 

   "I noticed," she says dryly. "But to be totally honest, it wasn't your new friend I wanted to talk to. So, be a good girl and sit down."

I drop obediently into a chair.

Lavos, I could face again without blinking.

My mother's wrath, on the other hand, I cannot.

Remember when I told you about the impressiveness of the full wrath of Lucca Ashtear-Lesley?

Who do you think I got it from?

I aspire to be as scary someday as my mother is. 

She's not as stubborn as Grandma or me, but that's only because she doesn't have to be. She can scare people into submission with that "angry-eye" of hers, long before a battle of wills even comes into the question.

The terrifying motherly wrath vanishes as quickly as it came as she sets a cup of tea down in front of me, removes the bottle of whiskey with a disapproving cluck of her tongue, firmly ignores my disappointed whimper, and gives me a soothing, motherly pat on the head. Then she joins me at the table, sets a plate of butter cookies down between us, and eyes me sternly again.

   "So, start talking."

   "About what?"

   "For starters, you could tell me why your father found out from a shopkeeper today that Isaac told him that you hadn't gotten back into town until yesterday."

   "Um…"

   "Next, you could tell me why you were entertaining a battered up woman in my kitchen."

   "Well…" 

   "And finally, you can tell me why you're pale as a ghost, you have dark smudges under your eyes, and you've lost weight." 

   "Uh…"

   "Lucca, I'm your mother," she says softly, and so gently that I have to look away and fiercely blink back tears again. "If something's going on, I want to know about it. God knows I get to see little enough of you now that you're married. I miss being around to help you." 

   "It's…it's nothing," I finally say, my voice trembling much more than I'd like. "Look, I've got to go."

And so, with this snap decision, I leap to my feet and bolt from the kitchen.

   "Lucca!" my mother shouts after me.

   "Sorry, Mom, I'm kind of in a hurry! I'll come back to visit more often, I promise."

I manage the hold back tears until I'm well out of the house.

However, I'm also noticing a timely reappearance of blinding rage, and so I make a decision.

First, I go home. 

Then, I find my gun. 

Then, I go hunting. 

Come on! Don't tell me _you_ don't get the urge to shoot at innocent creatures when _you're_ mad. 

Anyone who says so is either a saint, or lying.

Hey, I need to let off a little steam. I don't think anyone can grudge me for this.

And if they can, who the hell cares?


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

===================================================================

Did you know that once you've had a shot of bad luck, it unlooses a floodgate and makes every possible negative occurrence given your situation about nine zillion times more likely to happen? It's a scientifically proven fact. 

They've done tests.

I've always assumed that this is because bad luck is like those women who go to the washroom in packs. It gets lonely when it's the only one around. That's why good luck tends to stay good luck for a while before that first brave, entrepreneuring shot of bad luck finds the courage to jump aboard. After that, now that they have someone to keep them company, all the other shots of bad luck cackle, 

   "Booya! New nesting ground!" 

And thus it is that you find yourself with every possible bit of bad luck, and sometimes some that aren't possible. 

I'm pretty sure all those nice, social bits of bad luck are having a party right now with me. 

Yup. A nice, big, raucous, beer-soaked, bean dip-filled party.

You see, an hour ago, I was sitting at the kitchen table of my parents' house, staring reluctantly into my mother's stern, worried eyes. I ran for the hills, thinking that anywhere would have to be a better choice than this.

Now, I am in the front hall of my home, staring bewilderedly into the angry eyes of my husband, who has found me in the act of leaving the house, a sack holding a few necessities of training at my side, my gun in my hand.

Oh, great.

What's got him in a snit? 

   "Um, something wrong?" I ask lightly, instinctively tucking my Wondershot out of sight. 

   "Where have you been?" he asks, almost before I finish speaking.

   "I just went into town to get some lunch."

   "It's close to 4:00, Lucca. How can going for lunch take you four hours?"

   "That's three hours, thank-you. I didn't get out until about 1:00."

   "Still; three hours?"

   "I ran into Mom."

   "Oh, God. Your mother," Isaac groans. He always pretends to hate my mother. I guess hating your in-laws must be fashionable right now. Still, I'm sure he'd miss her the first Christmas that rolled around without a box shortbread cookies arriving in the mail. 

Honestly, I think he's just afraid of her. She has a way of asking you questions. You don't realize you're being picked for information until you've told her your life story.

And Isaac likes to talk anyway.

I, thank God, have built up a defence to Mom's questions.

Still, I can understand why Isaac, who likes his privacy as long as he has someone around to see him being independent, would find it a little disconcerting to realize with a start that he's just told this woman things that he wouldn't even tell me without a lot of convincing. 

I wish I knew how she did it. There are times when it could be handy. 

But back to the issue at hand.

Isaac is now raising one eyebrow suspiciously.

   "And why did you feel the need to get dressed up, to go see your mother?"

   "For God's sake, Isaac, it's just a skirt. I've worn them before. I didn't even put on nylons. See?"

   "Don't you usually buy your sweaters a little looser?"

   "This one's Marle's. I keep trying to give it back – I'm not crazy about lavender – but she keeps saying to keep it. And I have to wear it if it's taking up room in my drawer. I have a policy on these things."

Isaac snorts. He's never liked Marle any more than she likes him, although he's smart enough to keep quiet about this. It's always a bad idea to make a queen angry, especially when married one of her friends, of whom she is fiercely protective.

   "So, why bother with make-up, if you were just going to see your mother?"

   "I was going for lunch," I explain patiently. "Going to see Mom just kind of happened. And it was a whim. Surely your artistic temperament understands whims," I finish teasingly. 

   "Huh," he says reflectively and, I could swear, almost a little sheepishly. "I thought maybe it had something to do with the mens' sunglasses I found in our grass. Sorry."

   "Sunglasses?" I echo blankly.

   "These," he replies, holding out a pair of sunglasses that are for some reason familiar. 

Suddenly, as the implication of his sudden interest in my comings and goings, and their relation to a strange man's possessions, hits me, I grip my gun, still behind my back, a little tighter, angrier than I have been for a good long time.

And that's saying a lot.

   "I don't know," I say with studied calmness. "Maybe it was a door-to-door salesman."

   "A salesman who trampled a path across our grass," Isaac grouses, leaning against the wall.

I laugh.

   "It's October, Isaac. Our grass is already dead. I don't think walking on it really matters."

   "It's still rude," he says, sounding distinctly pouty. 

Well, at least he's not accusing me of sneaking around on him anymore. Although, as soon as he brings up the word 'rude', the owner of the sunglasses occurs to me.

I've always associated Magus with rudeness. Since meeting him, 'Magus' and 'rude' have become synonyms in my mind. I guess total inconsideration for anyone else is more accurate, but I don't have time for semantics. Or something.

   "Y'know what?" I say thoughtfully. "I think I know who those belong to. An old friend dropped by a couple days ago, and she must have dropped them."

   "She?" Isaac repeats suspiciously.

   "Yeah. She doesn't like women's things, so she tends to buy men's."

   "Weird girl," he says playfully. After all, we're both aware that I don't buy women's things unless they're things that are specific _only_ to women. Undergarments leap to mind. Shirts that have space to accommodate…feminine charms are another. Otherwise, I can't be bothered to sift through the unnecessary variety that boutiques tend to have.

   "Yeah; what kind of crazy woman buys men's things? Anyway, I'll take those. If I'm near her place, I'll drop by and return them."

   "You're not going out again, are you?"

   "Well, actually, I just came home to pick something up. I'm going back out again," I inform him cheerfully, pulling my boots back on.

As I stand up, my bag bounces against my leg, and Isaac examines me more carefully.

   "Lucca," he begins slowly, "what are you doing with that gun?"

Right, the gun. 

   "I'm taking it to Mom and Dad's. Dad and I are going to see if we can make some improvements." Lying through my teeth; the Wondershot needs no improvement, since I did it right the first time around. 

   "You just came from your parents'!"

   "And that's why I left. To come get this."

   "You and your father are both crazy," he sighs helplessly, but fondly. I just wish I could know whether it's genuine or faked fondness.

   "So, I'll see you later," I say, doing my best to signify the end of the conversation.

   "Yeah," he sighs. "Bye, Honey." 

I suppress a wince at this with great difficulty. Honey, indeed! I can't stand cutesy nicknames. Maybe Honey is what he calls Ariana, and he got confused. 

After all, the poor boy is easily confused.

Well, okay, so he's not. No more so than any other man. I'm just bitter right now.

Either way, I get myself out of the house and down the walk as quickly as possible, running over a few things in my mind as I go.

First of all, I'm still merrily seething away at the idea of Isaac accusing me of the side-boinking that he is currently partaking in. And being hurt about it! How dare he?

Still, the fact that he began to suspect I was up to anything at all drives home the point that I have to be more careful. If I let this throw my daily routine out of whack for too long, he'll begin to wonder why, and might start checking up on me.

Considering how subtle I've been while checking up on _him_, that would be bad.

I'm still not ready to admit to him that I know. I want him to admit what he's been doing, to me. On his own. 

Of course, the truth is, I just want to secretly forgive him, ignore it, and go on living our lives, like I never found out about anything, but I don't think I can do that. 

And then there's the fact that my newfound friendship with his mistress might get in the way of "forgive and forget". 

   "'You're a really nice person, and I could use a friend right now,'" I mimic bitterly in that far-too-sweet voice of hers.

So, am I going to go meet her for coffee some day?  
Before you answer that, consider that I'm a sucker when something that sweet and that dumb is suffering.

Of course I'm damn well going to see her again.

Who knows? Maybe I can tell her the truth about Isaac before she gets in too deep.

During this little talk with myself, I have been gradually approaching Guardia Castle. 

I think I'll try to get the Epoch back from those guys I gave it to a few days ago. Or was that yesterday?  

Then I'll head over to Mr. Sunshine's castle in 600 C.E. (after all, what proper scientist uses B.C. and A.D. anymore?) to bring him back his sunglasses. 

I've got enough crap going on without the possibility of an unexpected visit from an angry, sunglasses-less Magus.

Hey, maybe he'll try to get me drunk again! 

The ridiculousness of the idea of Magus plying any woman with liquor is so funny that it puts a bit of a bounce in my step.

However, before returning Sunny M. his sunglasses, I'll get a bit of hunting in. At this thought, I whip out my Wondershot and pretend to shoot little imaginary creatures everywhere. 

When I notice the curious, baffled gaze of Mrs. Patterson on me, I lower the gun and wave cheerfully.

With a tolerant, amused smile, she waves back.

Oh, yeah. 

No matter how weird I start acting, the community of Truce won't notice a thing. It'll just be "Lucca being Lucca again." 

There are times when being a widely confirmed weirdo has its good points.

===================================================================

The rest of the journey to the Guardia Castle passes quickly, and I'm childishly thrilled at the opportunity to shoot at a few of the more aggressive little creatures living in the forest surrounding it, as I make my way through. 

I've just summoned up my nerve to approach the gates of the castle, when a familiar figure flies through the massive door and engulfs me in a warm hug.

   "Uh, hi, Marle," I choke out, having learned long ago that, soldiers near or not, she will not stand for any formality from me – apparently, even that of using her real name. 

Weird girl Crono found himself.

Still, a weird girl that has boundless ability to convince people to do whatever she wants, and thus, as she chatters animatedly about how she's been dying to come see me again (even though it's only been a day since we last spoke), but she's been so busy, and she was going to go tomorrow, duties or not, I find myself dragged inside, up the stairs to a little sitting room, and shoved down onto a daintily made, surprisingly comfortable pale blue couch along one wall.

   "I'll be right back," she informs me sternly. "Don't move."

So, painstakingly, I don't move a muscle until she returns, followed by a uniformed young man carrying a tray filled with two plates of chocolate cake – I'm beginning to see a pattern in Marle's method of comforting here – and two cups of coffee.

   "I didn't move," I inform her dryly.

She giggles as the young man puts the tray down on the low cherry wood table in front of us. 

   "You're weird," she informs me.

   "Don't worry; so are you," I grin back. 

   "So, anyway, what are you doing here?"

   "Well, I did try to tell you," I remind her mildly. "I really just came to see if I could pick up the Epoch again."

   "Um…why do you need to do that?"

   "I wanted to use it in a barefacedly irresponsible manner, and return Magus' sunglasses before he has a little snit about it and shows up to get them at the worst time possible. I thought I'd take out a couple innocent bloodthirsty creatures with huge claws and sharp fangs at the same time."

Whoops. So much for actually convincing her to let me use it.

However, it seems that I have forgotten exactly whom I am dealing with. Marle bursts out laughing at this, nearly choking to death on a mouthful of coffee.

   "Sounds like fun," she says. "Tell him I said hi." 

   "Will do," I agree, rising from my seat.

Marle, however, will have none of this. She grabs my sleeve and tugs me back down.

   "Oh, no you don't. You're not going anywhere until you've finished your coffee and chocolate!"

   "Wow; you'll make a strange mother someday," I snicker. "'Now, now, Crono Jr., you know the rules. No carrots until you finish your chocolate cake!'"

This time narrowly escaping choking to death over a bit of cake, Marle gives me a playful swat. 

   "So, where is Crono, anyway?" I ask.

Marle frowns slightly.

   "Oh, the advisors have got him working on some paperwork today. We try to take turns, but I wish he had let me take care of it instead. I think he's coming down with something. But, you know, trying to get Crono to stay in bed when he's sick is like…well, it's like getting you to put down your book and get to sleep at a decent hour," she concludes, casting a sly sideways glance at me.

I shrug sheepishly and sip at my coffee. I guess the light burning on the other side of all those inn rooms until the wee small hours, back during our travels, didn't escape her notice. 

   "What can I say? An addiction's an addiction," I start to say, but Marle chooses that moment to leap to her feet with an excited squeal.

   "I just remembered! Come on! I've got something to show you."

There's a nearly devilish quality in her smile that makes me wonder with a pained groan exactly where this is going.

Still, I have little time to wonder, as she seizes my hand and drags me out of the sitting room, into the adjoining, rather massive, bedroom, and to a beautifully carved wardrobe. 

Releasing my hand, she throws the doors to the wardrobe open, and I peek cautiously over her shoulder as she begins to root through the various fancy ball gowns – altogether, an amount of lace and tulle that makes me nauseous just to contemplate. 

Finally, with a cry of triumph, she pounces on a smallish box at the back.

   "You can think of it as an early birthday gift," she says, shoving the box at me. "Or don't. Either way, you have to keep them. The store I ordered them from won't take them back since I ordered it by overnight express, and I sure can't use them. I have far too much of this kind of stuff as it is."

I stare at it, rather baffled, her words striking further fear into my heart. 

   "Open it!

Marle is nearly dancing with anticipation, which scares me even more, and so I work slowly at the silvery ribbon holding the box closed, and lift away the lid. Then I lift away about twenty-seven layers of fragrant lavender coloured and scented tissue paper. Then I gawk in horror as a flash of shimmering pink silk catches my eye. 

It couldn't be…

Yes, it is.

Thinking things not lawful to be uttered of Marle's thoughtful nature, I lift a short, lacy, silky pink nightie out of the box.

   "Isn't it great?" she giggles. "I know you don't like pink, but I thought maybe you could wear it around Isaac sometime, and see how he reacts."

   "Geez, Marle, that's really…great," I choke out, regretting having gone into such great detail as to my findings.

   "There's more," she says, eyes glimmering wickedly.

With a whimper, I lift away more tissue paper, and suppress the urge to vomit at the sight of a lacy red bra and knickers winking at me, clashing horribly with the nest of soft purple tissue paper.

   "Oh, wow, that's really thoughtful, Marle. Still, I can't accept these."

She lifts and eyebrow and gives me a stern look that reminds me absurdly of my mother.

   "Why not?"

   "Well…I don't know if they'll fit me," I blurt out, hitting upon a reasonable excuse.

   "Don't worry; I made a point to order them all in your size."

   "Marle! You don't even know my size!"

   "Sure I do! 34-B!"

I blink.

   "Marle…_how _do you know my size?"

She waves dismissively.

   "Oh, it's just the sort of thing that girls make a point to know about each other when they're friends."

   "Then I'm afraid I mustn't be a very good friend to you, Marle," I admit with a sigh. "I couldn't tell you your size to save my heart and soul."

   "Well, I meant girls who care about that kind of stuff," she amends. "And, just for future reference, it's 34-B."

   "Hmm," I say, examining the tag on the red…thing. "You planned that well. I guess, just in case I didn't want them, you'd gain a new set of garish red things."

She wrinkles her nose.

   "Now way! I never wear colours like that! Crono's never liked me in red. He prefers softer colours, like pink, and light blue, and light aqua, and – oh, he really likes soft yellow – "

   "THANK-you, Marle, that's way too much information," I break in, certain that I am currently blushing about the colour of the knickers dangling limply from my hand.

And, of course, Crono chooses this moment to make an appearance.

He stops short at the sight of a woman in his bedroom that isn't Marle, and then relaxes as he realizes it's just his faithful best buddy.

   "Hey, Lucca," he greets, still sounding a little confused.

Then, as his eyes light on the red set that I am still idiotically clutching, my embarrassment making me utterly unable to shove them out of sight, he begins to snicker uncontrollably.

   "I assume you've got something to do with this?" he asks, smiling fondly at his wife.

She beams.

   "Yup!"

Crono turns back to me. He shakes his head helplessly and chuckles.

   "You poor girl. You poor, poor girl."

===================================================================

A/N: Okay. Magus was supposed to appear in this chapter. But damn it, the characters took over and did what they wanted instead of what I tried to make them do. Especially Marle. The scene with her came outta nowhere. So Magus'll be back next chapter.

Sigh. I guess every story needs its filler chapters. Just not, like, seven of them in a row. The next chapter won't be filler, I promise. =)

As for Lucca's remark about being a citizen of Truce when she had already told Ariana that she was from somewhere else…let's just call that an author error that's worked its way into the storyline. =) 


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

===================================================================

Twenty minutes and a good deal of emotional trauma later, I manage to get my new unwanted lingerie into my bag – after telling Marle flatly that no, I was not going to model them for her – get the Epoch back, and get out of the castle.

I am now speeding merrily along toward Magus' castle, having executed the time change already.

I take this moment to ask myself exactly why I am going there.

_Stupid self, it's to return his sunglasses!_

_That sounds like an awful lot of work for a guy who's just going to snarl at you, doesn't it?_

_You got anything better to do this evening?_

_Ooh! I know! I could spend it with my husband,_ I suggest to myself sarcastically.

_And Ariana, too,_ myself asks sarcastically.

Damn it. I hate it when I'm right.

_Okay, fine, I'll go. But I'm going to go train for a while first. That way, killing small, innocent creatures will burn off some of my energy and frustration, and I'll be less likely to deck Magus the second he opens his mouth._

A pause.

_Well, a little less likely._

At this point, I catch sight of the castle looming ominously on the horizon, and I land outside the underground passageway leading to it.

What a pain in the ass to go through every time you need to leave to go buy milk. 

Of course, Magus doesn't strike me as the type to leave for anything too often. Or at least, to take the passageway to do it instead of just using magic to leave.

I will say this, though: it's a wonderful deterrent for visitors.

This is driven home with painful clarity as a pack of some sort of spiky, slimy things leap out of the walls and attack.

Great.

Six against one.

Thanks, guys.

Oh, well. I've always said that I wouldn't be one of those women who got married and stopped being useful.

Time to put my money where my mouth is.

Mmm…money. 

And now it's time to take the gold pieces out of my mouth and focus on fighting off these aggravating little creatures in a far-too-dark underground tunnel.

Hey, it's still easier than spending the evening at home, trying to keep my temper in front of Isaac.

Unfortunately, while I am counting my few blessings, the collective patience of the creatures is exhausted, and they attack as a unit.

   "Ow!" I shriek as one of them attacks my ear with its sharp little teeth, and two others apply equally sharp little claws to my back and neck. 

I whip around, hoping to dislodge the little things, which works a little too well and dislodges a good amount of skin with them.

   "Ow! Dammit!" I bellow, taking aim at the first of the monsters.

Of course, I hit it effortlessly, since you'll recall that I didn't stop being useful once I got married, and then I take aim at another one, and then another, and then another, until the whole pack of them are dead. 

However, it seems that these little monsters had called for backup some time before their untimely demise, and soon I'm swamped with the things again.

Somewhere between the fourth and fifth batch of them, I notice that I'm starting to feel a bit dizzy. This, of course, makes it a wee bit difficult to aim, but I still manage to take out batches six through nine, making a mental note as I do so to check one of the dead creatures' little fangs for a venom of some sort. Somehow, I doubt I'd be feeling this unsteady without something like that.

Then, after wiping out the remainder of them with a timely recollection that I do indeed have access to magic, particularly a nicely powerful Flare spell, I begin to notice that the ground is a lot closer than it was a minute ago…

…and that I'm being shaken awake by a hand that doesn't really care about being gentle enough not to jolt my aching head painfully.

   "Will you get up?" the voice fumes.

Reluctantly, I turn over slowly and open my eyes just as slowly.

Immediately, I wish I hadn't.

I'm beginning to get a little embarrassed at Magus' tendency to show up when I'm at my absolute worst. 

Devastated by my husband's cheatin' heart, spying on my husband and his mistress in a motel room, collapsed to the ground from varying injuries courtesy of Sunny M's own security system, what's next? Dead drunk and dancing naked on a table?

   "Gee, sorry," I snap sarcastically, struggling into a sitting position. "I didn't mean to inconvenience you by being unconscious."

   "What were you doing down here anyway? Don't you have people to spy on?" he demands, seizing my arm and dragging me to my feet.

   "Hey, if you keep being a smart-ass, I won't give you back your sunglasses," I warn, if a little weakly.

   "Stay where you are," he commands wearily.

   "How 'bout no?" I suggest sweetly, standing up.

He sighs in annoyance as I stagger a bit, and wraps an arm about me in a gesture that would be supportive from anyone else, but is merely grudging from him. 

   "You'd better come inside with me."

   "Damn right, I'd better come inside if you ever want to see your sunglasses again!"

   "For all I care, you could have kept them," he says with an awkward shrug as we start toward the end of the tunnel.

   "Great," I grouse. "I don't suppose you could have told me that before."

He glares down at me.

   "Does anything ever shut you up?" 

   "Nearly passing out usually does it," I reply cheerfully. "You shouldn't have woken me up."

   "My mistake. Next time I'll let you die down here."

   "That's not looking so bad right now, believe me."

As he comes to a dead stop, no pun intended, and gives me a scathing glare, I wonder briefly if that sounded a little more plaintive than it should have, and hasten to correct my error.

   "I just meant, because anything's got to beat listening to your bitching."

   "I'm not the one doing the bitching," he says with a nasty little smirk, my words reanimating him enough to head toward the exit of the cave again. "Now, shut up and keep walking unless you want to wake up everything in the next cave, too."

   "You should really just get a security alarm and ditch the underground network of caves," I inform him seriously.

   "I'll look into it."

   "No, you won't."

   "No, you're right. I won't. It's usually good for keeping away unwanted visitors," he adds, eyeing me meaningfully.

   "Okay, okay, I'm going," I huff, wrenching my arm away from him.

Damn.

This could end badly.

   "I meant to do that," I inform Magus coolly from the ground, where I am currently sprawled out.

He gives another annoyed grumble, behind which I am certain is a smug little smile at my misfortune, and seizes my arm.

   "Ow!" I shriek as he hauls me from the ground. "I think I'll stand on my own next time."

   "You're welcome," he says, sounding nearly huffy.

   "Thank-you," I say far too sweetly to possibly be mistaken for genuine gratitude. 

He mutters a string of words that I'm pretty sure would turn my mother's hair white coming from anyone but her, and then glares down at me again.

   "Just follow me."

So, deciding that I have been enough of a bother to my unwilling host, I do so with no further protests.

======================================================================

   "Dragging you out of these situations you get yourself into is a lot more trouble than it's worth," Magus grouses fifteen minutes later as he slides a cup of tea toward me over the table between the chair that he is currently occupying and the couch that I am currently occupying. "I try to get an evening's peace, and the next thing I know, I have to haul you inside after you've passed out from blood loss because you can't fight off a few bats."

I set down my teacup and glare at him long and hard.

   "First of all," I begin icily, "I did not pass out. I was aware the whole time – sort of. I just couldn't get up. Secondly, I did not pass out of blood loss. With the size of these scratches, it would have taken a lot longer to lose enough blood to pass out. Third, I got a little wobbly – but didn't pass out, mind you – because of the venom those little creatures had in their fangs, and I'd really appreciate it if you could give me something for it. I don't really want to try driving home like this; this stuff in your blood is worse than alcohol."

   "There really is nothing in the world that will shut you up, is there?" he sighs with the air of a man who has lost all hope.

   "I don't know," I reply snippily. "How much was I talking during the fight with Lavos after it pumped me full of needles?"

I could almost swear that he turns a little green at this.

   "You know how to turn a phrase, don't you? Now, shut up, drink your tea, and wait there."

With that, he stands up and exits the library, leaving me alone to sip away at my tea, nearly spill my tea, set down my tea, curl up on the couch, and fall ignominiously asleep.

===================================================================

An hour or so later, while slurping away at the contents of a coffee mug, I am musing to myself that I really must drop by here more often. After all, Magus may be a jerk, but he sure does make a damn good cup of coffee.

   "So, how about telling me why you're really here?" Magus suggests as he plunks down next to me on the couch.

I experience a definite dose of déjà vu. 

   "What do you mean?" I ask innocently.

   "I don't believe that you came here to return my sunglasses any more than I believe you came here three days ago for small-talk. Been destroying any more property?" he asks with a smirk.

   "Actually, no," I reply in a sweet, beautiful tone. "I just thought that you got away a little too easy night before last. You were supposed to stick around and cheer me up, right?"

   "Technically," he agrees, looking a little pained.

   "There you go! I'm helping you repay your karmic debt."

   "I'd sooner believe the sunglasses story."

   "Well, that's your choice. Either way, here I am. And obviously, I can't leave until I stop seeing double from the venom."

   "I did give you something for it," he points out, indicating the rag tied clumsily around my arm, which is aching oddly.

I grimace.

   "I thought so. It feels like a needle. Still, I'm not bleeding enough to justify this, am I?" I ask, removing the rag. There is a tiny dot of blood welling up on my arm, right at the joint.

He is in the process of turning away huffily, so I roll down the (inconveniently close-fitting, thank-you Marle, for your impractical taste in clothing) sleeve of my sweater, make sure my skirt is still making some pretence of covering me decently, and sigh.

   "Thank-you for taking the time, though," I add as an afterthought. 

   "You didn't have to thank me. Your gratitude is clear," he grumbles.

I smirk silently at this for a long time, during which he drains his coffee cup and fills it again, and we say not one blessed word – or one unblessed word, for that matter – to each other. 

I heard once that if you can sit in silence with someone for a half an hour and be perfectly comfortable, you can be good friends with that person, but if you can't, you'll never be friends and shouldn't try.

I wonder if that guy ever met Magus. 

It's much more comfortable to sit in silence with him than to actually _talk_ to him.

Still, I have a bit of news to relate that will probably annoy him beyond belief and it's burning a hole in my mind to keep it a secret any longer.

   "I met with her," I say casually, busying myself with stirring more sugar into the dark liquid in my cup.

He barely glances at me.

   "With Marle? Yes, I know."

   "No, not with Marle. Unless Marle's been sleeping with my husband, too."

This gets his attention.

   "Please explain."

   "I got a real, live 'please' from the king of the Mystics?! The wonders never cease!" I gloat.

He glares at me, his coffee mug forgotten and dangerously close to tipping over and giving him a nasty burn in a place that I'm too polite to mention by name.

   "Just tell me what you're going on about. Because it sounds to me like you've confronted your husband and his woman, and I would like to know what changed your mind."

   "I didn't confront them," I tell him beamingly. "I found her in the middle of the road, bleeding profusely, with a broken bone. So I took her home and patched her up."

He mulls over this for a time.

   "Who made her bleed? Was it your loving and sensitive husband, by any chance? Or is this Lucca-Speak for 'I chased her down and pummelled the hell out of her'?"

   "Of course not!" I shoot back hotly. "It was her husband, if you must know."

   "Then I assume he's found out about them."

   "Unless he just didn't like her outfit that morning."

   "Your flippancy is unbelievable."

   "Yeah, and your expression looks like you've got a pole up your ass," I shrug. "What's your point?"

   "At any rate," he says carelessly, "you obviously haven't considered the likely result of her partner finding out about her extra-marital activities with your husband."

I eye him suspiciously.

   "Which are?"

   "She won't be seeing him again."

   "I don't know," I sigh mournfully. "She did seem pretty in love."

   "People don't have affairs for love. They have affairs for the obvious benefits of a bit of variety in their sex lives. No one who has an affair knows the meaning of love at all."

   "Oh, is that what happened to you?" I ask carelessly.

Seconds later, I wish I hadn't.

   "I'd advise you to remember whose home you're invading right now," he growls, his nose less than half an inch from mine. "I'd also advise you to remember which of us is stronger."

   "Fine, fine, sorry," I grumble to hide my discomfort, extricating my arm from his grip and distancing myself by rising from the couch to inspect some of his books. 

Then, as his pre-tantrum words sink in, I turn slowly.

   "Do you really think this means they'll stop seeing each other?"

   "Your husband would be putting himself in danger of being pounded flat by this other woman's husband. Do you honestly think he would risk such harm to his precious self?"

I hate to admit it, but Magus makes a very good point. Slowly, I feel warmth that has been absent for the last few days, washing over me.

   "Then everything's fine! If he's going to break it off with her, everything will go back to normal!"

   "Until the next time he spends a little too long talking to the pretty girl in the shops," Magus snorts.

I glare at him.

   "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sighs, and I could swear that something leaves his expression that has always been there. He looks serious, pensive, and not at all mocking or cruel.

   "You may pretend to be hardened and cynical, but you had the kind of faith in this man that you'll never get back again."

   "This was just a bad time for us," I mumble, looking down. Somehow, a Magus without his mocking, sarcastic smirk is a lot more uncomfortable than a Magus threatening to throw me out of his house, but not before giving me injuries to match Ariana's. "It happens to every couple. It will get better."

It has to, right?

I mean, it couldn't get any worse.

I'm sure tomorrow morning, Isaac will come clean with me about everything that's happened, and assure me with tears of remorse, that I am the only woman he will ever need, the only woman that he ever really needed, only his old habits and insecurity didn't know it before.

The stakes are even higher than before, because now, if I'm wrong, Magus will make a point to gloat at me until I rip his face off and feed it to his little fanged security system.

Hey, the violence that I can no longer visit upon Ariana has to be redirected somewhere, right?

   "Now that the immediate threat of an obvious adulterer sleeping with _this_ girl has been removed, you don't plan to confront your husband at all?" Magus asks, pulling me out of my gruesome little fantasy world. "Just clarifying."

   "That would really screw up my friendship with his mistress," I reply after pretending to consider the idea carefully on my way back to the couch.

   "I'm sure it would be a tremendous loss."

   "She seems really nice," I continue, mostly to irritate him.

   "Are you insane?!" he sputters.

I guess it worked.

   "Please clarify," I request.

   "You're talking about the girl who is currently in the process of ruining your marriage."

   "Ah, but we've just established that she won't be doing that anymore, because my husband is a damn coward."

   "And this is the man you're talking happily about staying with?"

   "Yup," I reply cheerfully. "Hey, everyone has their faults."

   "Yours is having no common sense behind that huge brain of yours," he grumbles.

   "Coming from you, that sounds like a compliment."

   "I just find it odd that someone with your admittedly impressive intellect has no idea how to handle her own life."

At this, I freeze. Then, after carefully, slowly, and deliberately setting down my coffee cup, I turn, just as carefully, slowly, and deliberately, to eye him poisonously.

   "And exactly how should I be handling it?"

   "You know how. You should have confronted that man immediately, instead of wallowing in self-pity and anger, waiting for a confession from an obviously chronic liar. But you seem to be enjoying yourself, so who am I to criticize?"

   "Enjoying—!" I sputter. "You asshole! You have no idea what this is – forget it. Why even talk to you? I should have known it was stupid from the start."

   "Where are you going?" he asks wearily as I rise abruptly and start toward the door.

I turn to glare at him once more.

   "Crashing the Epoch in a ball of flame doesn't look so bad right now. Thanks for the coffee. I'll leave you alone now."

   "Don't be an idiot," he orders. "You'll get yourself killed. Get back here."

   "Bye, Magus."

Ignoring his further, rather unenthusiastic protests, I leave the library and make my way down the dark, shadowy hallway to the front doors.

I really need a more cheerful place to hang out.

====================================================================

A/N: Geez, how pathetic am I? I actually got queasy and dizzy writing four lines about that damn antidote needle. ^_^()   

Still, a long chapter, and stuff happened this time! Sort of.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

====================================================================

Why do these things keep happening?

Why do I let them happen?

Why don't I just live my life, unruffled and unflustered by this crap?

Is unflustered even a word?

Why did I just say all that out loud, causing everyone in this little Cowan flower shop to stare at me like I've got two heads?

Yes, my dear imaginary audience, you have understood correctly.

This morning at around ten-thirty, I got a visit from my mother. The purpose of her visit was to pass on another note to me, on an eerily familiar pink, rose-patterned stationary. And, I suspect, to satisfy her curiosity.

Ariana. Basically, she was taking the afternoon off of work to do some shopping, and she wondered if I would like to accompany her, after a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

After smilingly refusing to satisfy the curiosity of my dear mother and feeding her a slice of the chocolate cake Marle left with me, I set about wondering how the hell Ariana knew I'd still be in Truce. After all, Lucy lives in Porre.

The note said to meet her at one in the afternoon if I could, and so here I am, leaning up against a tackily wood-veneer-covered wall, seething over my own nature as a complete sucker. This is really the last thing I want to be doing right now.

The first thing, by the way, is getting some work done.

Instead, I've agreed to meet my husband's lover for lunch and a day of shopping.

I hate shopping.

I must be insane.

At this point, I notice that there's someone with blonde hair, emitting a sweet, floral scent, hovering in front of me and trying shyly to get my attention.

   "Hi, Lucy," Ariana greets cheerfully once I've met her eyes, thus acknowledging her existence. She flashes me that same damn sweet, perfect smile from yesterday. Though her lip is still swollen, she can now use both sides of her face – tentatively.

   "Ariana," I note flatly. As hard as I try, I just can't muster enthusiasm right now. As her face falls a bit, I ask kindly, "How are you?"

Her smile returns in full force.

   "I'm okay," she replies, joy radiating from her that Lucy is happy to see her after all. "Today's been pretty slow, so my manager doesn't mind me taking the afternoon off."

   "Great. Should we get going?" I ask, eyes sliding to the various customers of the flower shop who have heard me spend the last five minutes talking to myself, who are still staring oddly at me.

I guess I can't blame them. I'd stare at me oddly, too.

If I had a mirror.

Hey, I know. Maybe I can pick one up while we're – whimper – shopping.

====================================================================

Before we get anywhere near the six shops that compose Cowen's shopping district, Ariana steers me towards a little café.

Once we're seated, and have given the extremely apathetic young waiter our orders of coffee and sandwiches in my case, and iced tea and a salad (geez, what a splurge) in hers, she begins shooting me these shy, excited looks that make my groan inwardly in dismay, wondering what the heck she's glowing about.

Finally, she gathers up her courage sufficiently to blurt out,

   "I've left Stephen."

I stare at her blankly.

   "What?"

   "My husband. Stephen. I've left him."

I repeat my brilliant performance and keep staring at her blankly.

   "What?" I finally manage.

   "I've been thinking a lot about it lately. The main reason I was staying with him was because I was afraid to be alone, and then I met you yesterday and you were so kind, and when I met with Isaac last night, he was so supportive and kind. I realized that there are people in my life now who care about me. And I just can't keep living with a man who doesn't really care about me. I don't know how anyone could stand it."

Somehow, even though I should be used to it by now, I still have a hard time concealing my shock that Isaac has met with this woman for probably more purposes than friendly conversation.

   "So, you and Isaac…you're going to keep seeing him?"

   "Of course!" she says immediately and fervently.

Absurdly, the first and foremost thing on my mind right now is a smug sense of triumph that Magus was wrong about this. I guess the relationship guru, who probably hasn't _had_ and actual relationship in several centuries, was wrong.

   "You're not…are you planning on moving in with him?" I ask casually, becoming suddenly very engrossed in my coffee.

   "Well…not right away," she admits, her eyes clouding a bit. "After all, there's still that awful wife of his."

   "So, he doesn't have good taste in women on top of being handsome, funny, artistic and faithful, huh?" I ask before I can stop myself. "I guess no one's perfect."

Ariana looks at me oddly, as though trying to decide whether to be hurt or not. Finally, she seems to decide that her joy is too great to mar.

   "She roped him into marriage before he had a chance to get away."

I choke slightly on my coffee.

   "Oh? And did he tell you that?"

   "He did. He also told me his marriage is as good as over. So it might not be long before I'm living with him," she adds, blushing prettily enough to almost stifle my urge to kill.

Wow. The things you find out through a third party, hmm?

Our marriage is over.

Okay. I guess I can deal with this, even though it seemed pretty alive to me last night when I got in just in time to meet Isaac in the entry-way – still in his jacket, as I don't recall until just now – and apparently horribly worried that his wife hadn't arrived home yet. When he told me how horribly worried he had been, I apologized like the lovesick little pushover I still am. He forgave me so graciously that I took hope that everything might be okay, and we scampered upstairs and…well, never mind. Let's just say I didn't bother reminding him about the possibility of a baby this time.

Yeah.

This is why the fact that our marriage is over comes as something of a revelation.

   "Well, I don't know what to say, Ariana," I tell her truthfully. "Congratulations, I guess."

   "Thank-you," she says, with a huge smile and another shy downward glance. "It's great to know that I have a friend who can be happy for me."

Holy crap, I'm beginning to think this girl has self-esteem issues! Here she sits, in seventh heavens of delight, because some strange woman she met yesterday has wished her well.

   "Sure," I say, shooting her a brief smile before rooting around in my purse, more for show than anything. "But seriously, Ariana, if this guy's talking about leaving his wife for you, what makes you think he won't do the same thing again? As for leaving his wife," I continue carelessly, glad that I have something to occupy my suddenly shaking hands, "I'll believe it when I see it."

   "He will," Ariana insists quietly, and I see a return of the stubbornness that I saw in her yesterday.

   "Well, I hope so, for your sake," I say, carefully concealing the part about hoping against hell that he won't for my sake. "So anyway, we're a couple of girls, you've just left your man, you know what we have to do."

Ariana blinks, looking utterly baffled.

   "What?"

   "Lambaste the hell out of all men everywhere!"

She giggles.

   "I don't know if we should do that."

   "Ariana, you obviously aren't in love with him anymore, and he treated you badly."

   "It was only the fourth time he ever hit me."

   "In how long?"

   "Nine years!"

I grit my teeth.

   "Well, that isn't the point. If he did it at all, there was the chance that it could start to happen more often."

   "I know," she admits with a sigh. "But in every other way, he was very good to me. He would always tell me how much he loved me, and he would always come to work on my breaks. Sometimes, he even came by just to watch me during my shift, even if he had to cancel an appointment. He hasn't done that for a while, since he's gotten so busy…"

   "An appointment?"

   "Yeah, he's a doctor."

A doctor. Hmm…didn't she have a terrible fear of doctors, or something?

   "Well, he obviously wasn't good to you if he hit you."

   "Oh, but he was!" she insists. "Like I said, he was always so attentive, and he bought me so many nice clothes."

   "If he was a doctor, that's hardly a sacrifice. And anyway, did he buy you that?" I ask, gesturing to the long grey skirt and black sweater she's wearing.

   "Well, yes," she admits. "I don't like it either, but Stephen didn't think it was appropriate to wear colours to work."

   "Maybe it was because he didn't think it was "appropriate" for anyone else to think you were pretty," I suggest.

   "Maybe," she agrees pensively.

   "Come on, Ariana. Start small, and for now just admit that he wasn't a very nice man."

   "He used to be," she says sadly. "When we first met, I was just finished school, and my mother had just gotten married again, to a man who owned a cruise line. My stepfather didn't like when Mom missed the trips, even to spend time with me, and of course, I couldn't go with them every time. I was so lonely, and Stephen was so understanding."

   "They always seem that way. And then you marry them," I lament, shaking my head.

   "Are you married, Lucy?" she asks tentatively.

   "Yeah, I am," I admit, making a face.

She nods, and delicately drops the subject.

I reach for my cup of coffee, which naturally brings my elbow into direct contact with my purse, perched precariously on the edge of the table.

   "Oh, no!" Ariana squeaks as everything I own and carry with me on a daily basis – along with several things I don't – spills out onto the floor of the café.

   "Oh, great," I grumble, starting to gather things up.

Ariana, of course, has to be sweet and kind and help me, just when I was beginning to get a good grudge going.

   "Are these your husband's?" she asks.

I look up at the object she's holding out.

Oh, for the love of Pete!

I knew I forgot to do something when I went to see Magus last night.

Namely, the "something" I went there to do in the first place.

I take the sunglasses from her and shove them back into my purse.

   "Yeah, they are," I reply quickly. "I steal them whenever he won't be using them. Anyway, should we—"

   "Here you are," a voice coming from behind me interrupts.

I turn slowly, heart already sinking. I recognize this voice, don't I?

As my gaze lights on Magus, I curse once again my horrible tendency to be right.

I turn around, closing my eyes briefly and summoning patience from divine sources. When I open them, Ariana is staring at me, clearly very curious, but hesitant to ask about the man standing behind my chair, smirking down at me.

I think quickly. I need a plausible-sounding lie. After all, I can't tell Ariana any more than I could tell Isaac that I routinely visit the man who attacked Guardia four hundred years ago for coffee, and make a habit of borrowing his sunglasses.

The sunglasses!

Without stopping to think and thus to let my brain talk me out of it, I turn around and smile sweetly at Magus, who looks nearly a little nervous at this sudden mood swing.

   "Yeah! Didn't you find my note? I left it on the pillow this morning. Ariana," I continue, turning away before Magus can regain his powers of motion and go for my throat, "this is my husband."

   "Oh!" She brightens considerably as she stands up and holds out a hand. "It's nice to meet you…um, what was your name?"

   "Yes, dear, why don't you tell your friend your husband's name?" Magus suggests mildly, shaking Ariana's hand briefly.

   "Phil," I blurt out immediately.

   "It's really great to meet you, Phil," Ariana tells a furious Magus with an unconscious sweetness completely free of the malice that usually fills mine, that makes him even more furious. "Why don't you join us for coffee?"

   "No, no, I have somewhere important to be," 'Phil' replies, stressing the word _important_.

I roll my eyes impatiently. Ariana, observing from across the table, grins understandingly.

   "Well, then, get outta here before Ariana starts wondering if I turned you into a rude creep by nagging you all the time or something," I say, exasperated, but not exasperated enough to forget to glance over my shoulder quickly to see if Ariana has reacted to my choice of words.

He protests as I shove him towards the door.

   "Can I have my sunglasses back?" he huffs. "Unless you're still using them."

   "Take the damn glasses," I growl, shoving the unoffending object at him.

He snatches them away, turns to leave, and then turns back for a brief moment.

   "I'll see you later."

Before I have a chance to ask when the hell he expects that to happen, he's gone. I stand in the doorway of the café for a moment, staring foolishly after him. Then I recall that I was in the middle of doing something important.

After all, what could be more important than meeting your husband's mistress for a nice afternoon?

   "He seems nice," Ariana says brightly as I sit down.

I stare at her incredulously.

   "You're joking, right?"

   "No," she says, confused.

   "Then you're trying to be polite."

Ariana takes my hand sympathetically.

   "You two are having problems right now, aren't you?" she asks, considerately lowering her voice so that the entire café doesn't become aware of this.

   "What would make you say that?" I ask, once again using my coffee mug as a shield.

   "Well, you seemed uncomfortable around him."

O-kay! Add this to the list of things to remember: Ariana seems dense, like Marle, but she's incredibly perceptive about things like this. Like Marle.

Basically, I have found a slightly quieter Marle.

Great.

   "And you've been staying with your parents here in Truce, haven't you?" she continues.

What's she looking so knowing about?

    "Yeah," I admit slowly, deciding in an instant that if she's handing me this lie, I'm not going to refuse it.

   "Still, I think you and Phil will be just fine, Lucy," she says with the same slightly condescending 'aw-that's-so-cute-she's-in-love' smile that I've worn so many times in the last two days. "He took the first step by coming to find you. And you're clearly very much in love."

_Okay­,_ I reflect, choking slightly around a mouthful of coffee, _maybe she isn't so perceptive after all._

    "Thanks, Ariana," I say with an intentionally wobbly smile. "I'm glad you think we'll be okay."

   "Any time you want to talk about it, you know I'll listen," she says, giving my hand another squeeze.

I smile as gratefully as I can, and we sit in silence for a moment, sharing what would appear to anyone looking in, and possibly to Ariana, a moment of perfect woman-to-woman fellowship.

I personally am inwardly glaring daggers at her, trying my damnedest to hate her.

Finally, she jumps briskly to her feet.

   "Come on, Lucy!" she chirps. "We have shopping to do!"

As soon as she mentions shopping, I come the closest to hating her I have since meeting her.

---------------------------------------------------

   "Oh, isn't this adorable?" Ariana exclaims in delight an hour later, holding up a tiny yellow and blue plaid jumper-dress with a matching headband, booties, and drawers.

   "I think it's a bit small for you," I tell her kindly, eyeing the cartoonish bunny bouncing across the front of the dress.

My new friend giggles. I do not, and barely manage to suppress a groan of deepest boredom.

If I ever thought normal clothes-shopping was boring, I did not know the meaning of the word. Sadly, I am wiser now, and I realize that nothing in the universe is more mind-numbing than spending an hour browsing the infant section when you have no children, with a friend who is also childless.

   "You're so silly, Lucy. I don't mean for me! I just think it's so cute!"

   "That's because you've been programmed by an oppressive society to think that it's a woman's sole duty to bring children into an already overpopulated world," I shoot back immediately.

   "So, you and Phil aren't planning to have any?"

   "No," I reply emphatically, the thought of a little Magus/me hybrid running around and terrorizing the world chilling me to the bone.

   "I'd love to have children someday," she confides, seemingly without noticing that I haven't asked.

   "Heh. And how does Isaac feel about this?"

   "Oh, I haven't talked about it to him!" she exclaims, blushing brightly.

   "Probably a good idea. Most men have an immediate panic reaction to fuzzy pink baby blankets and talcum powder."

   "I don't think Isaac would," she pouts. "He's got such a gentle, nurturing nature."

I wonder, not for the first time, if we are thinking of the same man. Of course, I suppose this is a little unfair. Isaac can be nurturing. If he has a really good reason.

But God help this little tramp if she gets pregnant with his child in order to test his nurturing nature.

For that matter, God help me if she does.

After all, brutally murdering both of them would almost certainly land me in prison, and it should be pretty obvious why I don't want that to happen.

I've been to prison.

Or at least, I've been _in_ a prison, even if it wasn't as an inmate.

They don't let you keep your collection of power tools, and they don't care if the other prisoners are being too noisy for you to concentrate on reading your book.

As for killing all the prisoners to get some peace and quiet…well, let's not get carried away here. I'm calm. I'm rational. I'm not some violent psycho.

And if anyone out there laughs at that, I'll kill you.

=====================================================================

A/N: Nothing important to say this time. I just think author's notes make the chapter look more _finished_ than just leaving it. Anyway, thanks very much to everyone who read. And thanks even more to everyone who reviews. Here's a question: is this whole "Lucca telling Ariana that Magus is her husband Phil" thing absurd enough to be jarring when set alongside the rest of the story?


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

=====================================================================

By the time Ariana has gotten tired of looking at baby clothes, and even a few things in her own size, the sun has begun to sink behind the mountains, and I find myself strolling back to Truce and admiring the beautiful sunset that I won't even bother trying to describe.

I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I'm walking as slowly as I can to ensure that I have to spend as little time with Isaac as possible. I have no idea what I'm going to tell him when he asks, as he inevitably will, where I was today, and why I'm carrying shopping bags, containing a wide variety of nice clothes, and even a real, honest-to-God dress.

That, of course, was Ariana's idea. She saw the scrap of navy-blue knit hanging on the rack, and immediately did this happy-dance that I swear I saw Marle do when she helped me into my wedding dress.

Five minutes later, we left the store, with me as the proud owner of my first "casual dress"…like there's any such thing.

Still, I have to admit, even though it's itchy, uncomfortable, and a demeaning abomination, the close-fitting, knee-length, longish-sleeved, far-lower-necked-than-anything-I've-worn-in-a-long-time dress did give my figure a completely different look than men's jeans and flannel shirts, or even the relentlessly practical skirts, properly fitting jeans, and sweaters I tend to live in the rest of the time.

Ariana suggested that I should wear it for Phil sometime.

I had a moment of crisis, trying to remember who the hell Phil was, and nearly choked on my own tongue of embarrassment when it hit me.

She misinterpreted my reaction, and immediately became all serious and kind and supportive, yet firm with her hopelessly stubborn friend. If I put some real effort into looking good for him, she argued, it would show him that I cared enough to return his gesture from earlier today. Each knowing that the other truly did care might help us open up to one another.

I promised that I'd wear the dress for Phil, mostly to make Ariana shut up before thoughts of parading around in front of Magus in a goofy-looking dress made me die of embarrassment and disgust.

Still, between Cowan and here, it has occurred to me that I do indeed have an actual husband with whom I am having actual problems.

Suddenly, I'm not anxious to waste as much time on this walk as possible.

Perhaps the dress wasn't an entire waste.

=====================================================================

It is now an hour later, and if you can believe it, I'm wearing not only the dress, but a pair of _nylons_, and even a pair of horribly impractical strappy black high heels, courtesy of Marle's closet, naturally. She left them here once, and when I tried to give them back, she mumbled something about black being too harsh for a blonde complexion, and bolted from the house.

So far, high heels and the matches that I'm using to light some candles have proved a dangerous combination. After tripping, match in hand, several times, and nearly burning the house down, I decide that four candles are enough for the living room.

I remove two wine glasses from our cabinet, open a bottle that I've had chilling for the last half hour, and pour each glass half-full.

Then I settle down on the sofa in the living room in a sexy, yet comfortable pose, and prepare for a long wait.

=====================================================================

Two hours later, I am reflecting with no small bit of annoyance that I hadn't expected the wait to be _this_ long.

What the hell could be keeping him?

What, indeed?

Isn't it quaint? I get Ariana in the afternoons, and he gets her in the evenings.

Finally, just as I rise from my position on the couch, dance around cursing as I wait for the pins and needles to work themselves out of my legs, and start up the stairs to our room, dashing the tears from my eyes as I go, the front door opens.

I turn around briefly, giving him easily enough time to ask what's wrong, or notice the trouble I've gone to in putting on this damn dress, or anything, but he says nothing, deeply engrossed in a novel he's reading.

Disgusted, I climb the remaining stairs and head immediately for our room, intent upon burying those shoes as soon as possible.

As I'm fighting with the straps, the bedroom door clicks open, and I become aware that my husband is staring at me oddly.

   "Had a hot date?" he asks me lightly.

I shoot him a poisonous look before going back to my shoes. Somehow, though, my hands are shaking too much to grapple with the tiny silvery buckles right now.

   "No; did you?"

He stops short at this, in the act of hanging up his navy blue sports jacket.

   "What?"

   "Nothing," I sigh, giving up on the shoes and flopping back onto the bed. "What the heck happened to you, anyway?"

   "I had some things to take care of."

This is all the explanation I get.

Figures.

If I disappear for more an evening, I'm grilled within an inch of my life. If he disappears for an evening, it's because he had 'important man things' to do.

   "Is she pretty?"

He stares at me.

   "The girl who left perfume and long blonde hairs all over you," I reply, rising from the bed and picking a hair off of his shoulder.

He catches my wrist and moves my hand away from him.

   "Are you trying to insinuate something, Lucca?"

   "Just curious," I say carelessly.

   "I can't stand people," he says pointedly, "who imply and hint at things, but won't just come out and say them."

I ache to ask him if it's better or worse than people who run around screwing anything with boobs, but don't come right out and say that they want a divorce from their current spouse.

Mostly because I'm terrified that he'll do it.

I fully realize that this is pathetic. I am unable to come clean about what I know, because I don't want to lose a man who isn't worth half the effort.

But somehow, what he's worth isn't important, because he's all that will make me happy. So much so that I've almost talked myself into apologizing.

   "You shouldn't leave candles burning downstairs like that," he tells me brusquely. "You'll burn the house down. And why on earth did you open that wine?"

I stare at him helplessly for a moment, and suddenly it sounds incredibly silly to tell him that I thought we might have a romantic evening together.

   "I-I thought you might feel like some," I finally say, turning away.

   "You do realize that I bought it for a reason?"

I'm sure you did. And I'm sure your 'reason' has long blonde hair and a fantastic body.

   "I'll pick up a bottle tomorrow," I shrug. "No harm done."

   "Don't bother," he huffs. "I need it for tomorrow."

   "Some more things to take care of?" I shoot back before I can stop myself.

I can almost hear his hair bristling with indignation, and I barely manage to suppress a yelp as he grabs me and yanks me around to face him.

   "For God's sake, Lucca, what the hell is wrong with you?"

   "Do I nag you?"

He lets go of my arm in his astonishment.

   "What?"

   "Do I nag you?" I repeat insistently.

   "At the moment, yes, you are nagging me."

   "As a general rule. Before now. Is it something that's been a problem for a while?"

   "This is ridiculous," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.

   "Well?"

   "What?" he asks, annoyed.

   "Answer the question," I command.

   "Let's just go to bed," he pleads wearily.

   "If there's a problem with our marriage," I say quietly, "I think we should fix it."

   "Oh, Christ, I don't need this right now."

And while I watch, wondering vainly what the hell just happens, he snatches up his coat and storms out of the room.

=====================================================================

   "You like it?"

Magus merely stares blankly at me.

I guess I can't blame the guy.

I'd stare, too, if a mad scientist materialized on my doorstep, wearing a sexy blue dress, drenched from torrents of rain that seems to have been sent especially to annoy me, high heels, and too much make-up, which for me means any.

Of course most of the make-up is probably gone by now, dribbling down my chin along with raindrops and the tears that I haven't been able to get under control yet.

I could swear that, for half a second, he looked actually angry rather than simply smug, or apathetic, or dour. And somehow, I got the feeling that it wasn't directed at me this time. However, before I can decide what to make of this, or even if I really saw it, he steps aside and opens the door wider.

   "What happened?"

   "Oh, nothing much," I say carelessly, stumbling slightly over those damned heels. I think I'll bury them in the backyard next to Ariana's boot. "I tried to spend some nice quality time with my husband, but my irrepressible nature as a nagging bitch got in the way."

   "Wait there," he orders tiredly.

As soon as he vanishes down the hallway, I remove those damned heels (this time with the aid of the pocket knife in my shoulder bag) and kick them to the side.

By the time I'm done decimating the straps of the expensive leather shoes, I find Magus standing over me with a towel.

   "What's that for?" I demand, eyeing it.

   "Do you honestly think I'm going to let you in to drip all over my furniture like a wet dog?" he asks with a smile that tries its hardest to be mean and nasty.

Somehow, the very fact that doesn't succeed makes me a little uneasy. There's something wrong about my being here, if not to sling insults back at Magus in return for the ones he slings at me. _That_ is great fun. I don't know if I like this grim, somewhat concerned Magus as well. Still, maybe I'm just imagining the difference. If I act normal, maybe I'll force him to stop treating me like a terminal disease patient.

   "Thanks," I say as dryly as I can while soaked to the skin, trying to squeeze the excess water out of my hair and dress and removing my likewise soaked nylons before wrapping the towel around my shoulders.

Together, we make our way down the hallway that I'm beginning to get to know pretty well, and into the library. He gestures me over to the couch.

Hello, old friend.

   "I don't suppose I can expect an honest answer as to why you're here this time," he asks almost gently. For him, anyway.

   "Well, you did say earlier in the coffee shop you'd see me later," I point out, hitting upon a plausible-sounding reason to cover up for the fact that I haven't even thought about what I'm doing here. "Your 'security system' gave me surprisingly little trouble this time; they must all be asleep."

   "No, they just haven't had a chance to repopulate since the last time you came in and wiped most of them out."

   "Hey, don't get more on my account," I say with a small smile. Then, looking down at my hands, where my engagement ring and wedding band seem to twinkle mockingly at me, I continue hesitantly. "Anyway, sorry about earlier. I kind of panicked. I couldn't really tell Ariana how we actually know each other."

   "I suppose not," he agrees. "Still, _Phil?_"

I grin sheepishly.

    "Like I said, I kind of panicked."

   "Hmph. So, that's his lover, is it?"

I nod, shooting him a look that just _dares_ him to say anything admiring.

Instead, he snorts.

   "The man must be an idiot."

I stare.

   "What's that mean?"

   "The girl obviously hasn't got a brain in her head," he smirks, and I'm relieved to see that the old Magus is back.

   "Hey, guys don't have affairs with girls for their minds," I point out. "And she is sweet."

   "Even if you swore three days ago that you'd kill her?"

   "I didn't know her," I reply uneasily.

He rolls his eyes.

   "Stay there. I'll go get some coffee."

   "Why?" I ask, astonished.

   "I don't suppose you'll be leaving anytime soon," he replies wearily. "And you'll want to be awake for the trip home."

I laugh.

   "Geez, Magus, that's almost sweet. What the heck's _happened_ to you?"

A funny expression crosses his face, as if he's suddenly begun to wonder that himself. Then, with a disgruntled noise, he sweeps from the room.

I take this moment to ask myself very honestly what the hell I'm doing there.

Maybe next time Magus asks, I'll have an answer.

Not at this rate, though.

To be honest, I have no idea why I've come back.

I can keep telling myself it's for the coffee, but that's probably not true.

Before I have time to consider the matter further, my reluctant, but not exactly grudging, host returns with a pot of the aforementioned coffee and two mugs.

After stealing a few glances at him, I finally speak up.

   "Can I ask you something?"

He looks up at me with barely perceptible interest.

   "What?"

   "When you said before that it seems like I'm…enjoying this—"

   "Maybe I shouldn't have said that," he admits, this time clearly grudging.

   "No, I just wanted to know, do you really think that?"

He is silent for a long moment, looking down into the contents of the mug he has just filled. Then, seeming to shake himself out of it, he shoves the cup at me.

   "Drink your coffee."

Suddenly furious, I slam the mug down on the table, and then wince in pain as my hand is scalded in a fine display of the natural laws of the universe teaching a lesson to a temperamental little girl.

   "Why the hell can't anyone give me a straight answer to a straight question?" I demand.

   "You're making a mess," he points out coolly.

   "Will you forget about that for a second and just tell me the truth?" I plead, finding angry tears in my eyes but far past caring.

   "I don't see the point. It's none of my business, after all," he finishes, striving for carelessness.

   "Well, fuck, sorry for taking up your precious time," I snarl before making for the door of the library. "I'll let myself out."

There's a flurry of movement behind me, and I find myself unable to move. I'm warmer than I was, and it takes me a minute to attribute this to the arm wrapped around my shoulders and the other arm wrapped around my waist.

   "Don't even think about trying to pull that again," he commands in a smooth, quiet voice of ultimate anger. "If you're going to keep coming here, you're going to stop storming out every time I say something you don't like."

   "I don't mind what you say when you actually come out and _say_ it," I shoot back inconsistently, conveniently not worrying about the fact that I did leave angry because of what he said the last time I was here. "Right now, I'd like to know why you think I'm enjoying this."

   "Why?" he echoes incredulously, releasing me abruptly. "You're joking, aren't you?"

   "Do I look like I'm joking?" I ask ominously as I whirl about to face him, trying to infuse all the terror of my mother into my gaze.

   "You aren't going to like this," he warns.

   "That's fine, as long as it's honest."

   "From what I understand, multiple people tried to warn you multiple times that this husband of yours was not to be trusted."

   "That didn't matter. I loved him. Love him," I correct immediately as his eyebrows lift slightly. "I love him. It still doesn't matter."

   "And I suppose that's why you've displayed far more annoyance than actual sadness at what's going on?" he asks snidely.

I gaze at him levelly.

   "You mean, because I haven't fallen to pieces and tried to kill myself? Is that what a woman should do in this situation? If you don't act like a complete moron and run out into the rain to put your head on the railroad tracks and wait for the first passing train, it means you never really cared? And what does it matter if people 'warned' me? That doesn't make it hurt any less to find out that I really couldn't change him."

   "You should have expected it."

   "Maybe I did. That doesn't make it hurt any less either. Because believe it or not, Magus, I was honestly under the impression that he loved me."

   "Maybe he does."

   "Then he has a goddamned funny way of showing it," I mutter, trying to disguise the wobble in my voice with petulance, and staring down at my toes to hide the tears now dripping down my face. Then, with a desperate sniffle, I continue. "Still, that doesn't explain why you think I'm enjoying this."

He sighs again.

   "You're sneaking around after them like some sort of would-be detective. You delight in it when you catch your husband in a lie. Your pride and satisfaction don't do much to prove to me that you really care for him as deeply as you seem to imagine you do. Basically, Lucca, you've made a game of it. A game that you seem to be enjoying. And now you've gone so far as to befriend his mistress."

   "That wasn't supposed to happen! She was injured and bleeding! I couldn't just leave her."

   "The rest of the town did an admirable job of it, from what I gather."

   "That's exactly why I couldn't," I point out. "She's still human, and from what I understand, a pretty messed-up one. I really think he's taking her for a ride because she's vulnerable and innocent and in a really bad place right now. She's been treated horribly by one man, and in a weird way, that's making her very responsive when a different man treats her with a little bit of kindness and consideration.

I look up at Magus, startled, as a series of coughs erupt from him.

   "Careful with that coffee," I smirk once he can breathe again.

He shoots me a freezing glare for a brief moment, and then looks away with this weird expression that I can't read at all. It's kind of like he's just had an epiphany and been punched in the stomach, and been hit by a train, and bit down on a hot pepper, all at once.

Set a little on edge by the sudden silence in the room, I sip at my warm coffee once or twice before downing the rest of it in a gulp.

 I am in the process of reaching for the coffee pot to refill, when his voice breaks the silence.

   "I think you had better leave."

I stare at him oddly.

   "What?"

   "You heard me. It's time for you to leave," he repeats, more firmly.

   "So, what the hell brought this on?" I demand, a tiny flare of anger coming to life as I stand up.

He sneers, and I recognize the return of the old Magus – not the one that I'd been drinking coffee with, but the one that I remember nastily informing Crono that if he got "whacked" again, he could damn well stay dead, and making snide remarks to an obviously hurting Glenn about his "dead boyfriend" following our visit to Cyrus' grave.

   "I think I've wasted enough time nursing you through your little breakdown. Deal with your own damn problems, you little fool."

Oh, yeah.

This is Asshole Extraordinaire, and I realize suddenly just how uncommonly _nice_ he has been for the past few days.

Still, I guess all good things must come to an end.

Lifting my chin slightly, I sweep from the room as grandly as I can.

=====================================================================

Somehow, I leave the castle with the feeling that I won't be returning for a good long while.

And that I should have kept those damn high heels in tact. Maybe they were demeaning, awkward, and uncomfortable, but they would've beat walking across wet, muddy ground in bare feet.

Yeah.                                 

This is just how I anticipated my evening ending: walking in the rain and dodging monster droppings.

Life truly _is_ wonderful.

=====================================================================

End Notes: Aw, hell. I just wrote myself into a bit of a corner. Not only that, but I depressed the hell out of myself. ()

And rest assured, there was a reason for Magus' little pissy-fit, which I hope shall become clear later on.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

====================================================================

Yes, life _is_ wonderful, and this is driven home to me with especial force as I face death in the face in the form of an angry Marle.

Maybe I was selling her a little short when I airily proclaimed that nothing could be as scary as the full wrath of Lucca Ashtear-Lesley.

She's giving me a damn good run for my money here.

If I were an onlooker, I'd probably be doubled over with laughter at the sight of a cute little blonde in a fuzzy pink sweater and a matching bow in her hair, glaring flaming, poisoned daggers at someone who makes a big deal about being strong, mature, and capable, and is currently proving it by cowering back against the wall of her old bedroom.

I guess you need a little background on how all this came about.

At about eleven this morning, I was startled out of the work-induced haze that I've been immersed in for the past four days, by an insistent rapping at the door.

When I ignored it, hoping that whoever it was would just go the hell away, it turned into a full-out pounding.

Grumbling bitterly at everyone and everything in existence, I ran for the door before the knocking could give me any more of a headache.

And there, of course, I found an angrily frowning Marle, who greeted me by the time-honoured tradition of grabbing me by the front of the shirt and demanding to know where I'd been for the last few days.

Struggling to free myself from Her Highness' Iron Grip of Death, I stammered out a request to know what the hell she was talking about.

When her expression went from merely angry to severely, almost lividly angry, I realized my mistake and apologized as contritely as I ever have. To Marle, anyway.

She brushed this aside in the interest of getting right back to the demands that I tell her where I'd been, and I pleaded with her – yes, actually pleaded with Marle – to calm down and let me get her some coffee so we could discuss this like civilized people.

So, I got the coffee.

We sat down to drink it.

However, just as I was about to start my tale of all that had happened, my loving husband chose that moment to enter, send me another scathing glare to add to the thousand or so I've received in the four days since my last visit with Ariana. Or Magus. Or my mother. Or anyone else in the outside world.

Needless to say, I've stuck to my workshop for more reasons than pure workaholism this time.

Either way, with Isaac clattering about the house, there was no way I could tell Marle all about my meeting with my husband's mistress, or Magus' little fit.

I was actually relatively anxious to get Marle's opinion on what the hell was going on with this last one.

All of this pointed to the necessity of getting out of the house.

But where was there to go that was properly free from the prying eyes and pryinger ears of Truce?

=====================================================================

Given where we are now, it's probably pretty obvious that we decided on my parents' house.

"Talk," Marle orders me, leaning over me as I shrink back as though I'm trying to meld myself right into the wall as part of a daring escape.

"Okay, Marle! Okay! Just let me up, would you? This would probably give my mother the wrong idea if she came in for some reason."

A flicker of amusement crosses Marle's eyes, but she refuses to get distracted enough to laugh.

This does not bode well.

"Lucca," she says warningly.

"Alright, fine," I grumble. "What part do you want to hear first?"

"I've been trying to get in contact with you. Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"Look, Marle, the past few days haven't been good, as I'm sure you can guess," I sigh, extricating myself from her grip and sitting up dizzily.

"Why?!" she exclaims, throwing her hands up in exasperation and dropping to the bed next to me, causing both of us to bounce gently for a moment. "That's what I want to know! I know you've had a reason for this – I don't think you'd just vanish from the face of the planet for fun – but I've been going insane, wondering what was going on, and if you were doing okay, and—"

"Marle!" I interrupt before the edge of hysteria I hear in her voice can get worse. "I'm fine! It's been a bad couple of days, but I've been dealing with it. Oh, and by the way," I say a little coolly, "thanks for sending Magus to keep me company few nights ago."

Marle grimaces.

"From your expression, I'm guessing that backfired. Sorry, Lucca. It really seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, if you'd gone there before…"

"I know. It's okay. And anyway, it won't be a problem again."

"What do you mean?" she asks, blinking huge green eyes at me.

Damn these adorably clueless women. How are the rest of us supposed to compete?

"I mean, I was there last night, and he threw a pissy fit and ordered me to handle my own damn problems and never come back."

Immediately, Marle is all business.

"He really said that? When? In response to what? What had you two been talking about?"

Why didn't I just crash the Epoch into a mountain on the way back home?

"Marle!" I bark, interrupting her string of questions, gradually growing less coherent, very effectively. "If you'll let me, I'll tell you about it."

"Go on," Marle says coolly, crossing her arms and watching me closely.

"Well, I was telling him about Ariana, strangely enough. I was just talking about how her husband was wasn't so good to her, and maybe that's why she was such a pushover when Isaac the Sweet-Talking Asshole swept in and offered her a date. Five seconds later, Sunny M. himself is doing all but tossing me from the premises by the back of my dress."

Marle permits herself a moment of losing focus on the issue at hand, and grins.

"A dress?"

"Shut up."

"Okay, fine. So, what do you think it means?"

"I don't know," I shrug uncomfortably. A few possibilities have bounced their way across my thoroughly cabin-fevered mind in the past four days of near-solitude, but they're far too ridiculous to even consider. So, I go with a much safer, and much more sensible option to present to Marle. "Maybe the situation reminds him of a girl he knew once?"

"Maybe he knew Ariana," Marle suggests.

"Yeah, I'd agree with you, Marle, except he met her briefly."

Immediately, Marle's eyes grow wide and begin to glimmer with interest.

"How the heck did _that_ come about? Hang on; for that matter, how do _you _know so much about her?"

"W-well, I met her less briefly."

The silence in the room at this point is almost overwhelming. I'm feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and even the spider crawling up the wall seems edgy. Marle, however, is staring at me so piercingly, I could swear I've got another hole in my head by now.

Like I needed one.

"What?"

It's only one word, but I wish you could hear the shock, menace, and disapproval Marle infuses into it.

Poor Crono probably doesn't get a thing by this one. He's probably terrified to try.

"I ran into her a while back. On the way back from visiting you and Crono, actually."

"And how did you end up talking to her instead of trying to kill her?"

"Actually, the conversation got started because it looked like someone else had. I dragged her home to patch her up, and she told me about her husband. He found out that she'd been seeing 'someone', and beat her up."

"And you thought it was your responsibility to help her?" Marle asked flatly.

I raise one eyebrow at her.

"Don't tell me you wouldn't have done it."

"If Crono took a mistress and I ran into her on the street and she was injured? Well…it would be hard, but I guess you're right," Marle admits grudgingly.

"Of course I'm right. You couldn't leave an injured woman bleeding in the streets any more than I could. Probably less than I could. If I'd known then that she would get this attached to me, I might have done it and conscience be damned."

Marle eyes me sternly.

"You would not, Lucca."

"Oh, but I would. The day after I took her home and patched her up, she sent me a note asking me to meet her for lunch, and then she dragged me out shopping for the rest of the day, and insisted upon swapping confidences, and gave me all this advice about how to repair my troubled relationship with my husband."

By the time I stop for breath, Marle is smiling fondly and knowingly at me.

"What?" I shrug.

"You had fun," she says. "Admit it."

"Yeah, okay, I had fun," I grumble. "So what?"

Her smile vanishes again.

"But you were going to tell me how Magus came to meet this Ariana girl."

I frown.

"Yeah; now, that was weird. He came into the café where we were having lunch. I don't know how he found me, but he came to pick up his sunglasses."

"And then you went back later?"

"Yeah," I reply slowly and cautiously.

Marle surveys me curiously.

"It sounds like you've been spending an awful lot of time there."

"Well, Magus is a better option than Isaac right now, which should put into perspective just how badly my marriage is failing," I sigh, dragging my pillow from the head of the bed and hugging it tightly.

"At least, he was until he ordered you to stop coming," Marle corrects with an expression I don't altogether like.

"Uh, yeah," I agree.

A long silence.

"Okay, Lucca. First of all, I've got to admit that I think it's just as well that he's told you not to come back," Marle says briskly. "I mean, he can't have been so bad if you kept going back, but I still don't think he's the best person for you to be around right now. He isn't exactly Mr. Sensitivity," she finishes dryly.

"Hey, that's what I liked about going there," I shrug, extremely relieved that I've finally figured out why for myself. "It was kind of something I needed, to be around someone who was such a jerk that I didn't feel guilty about ripping into him as much as he ripped into me. Verbal sparring is a refreshing change from crying."

Marle grins a scary grin.

"Well, just so you know, I'll be perfectly willing to take a strip out of you whenever you feel the need to be nasty back."

"That doesn't make me feel a lot better," I note, inching away.

Marle laughs, and then falls serious again.

"Honestly, Lucca, even if you get the chance, I'd feel a lot better if you didn't start hanging out with Magus too much right now."

"No problem," I say emphatically. "I can't think of anyone I'd like to talk to less right now. Except for my wonderful and loving husband, who can't even be bothered to tell me before his little side-dish that our marriage is over."

Marle's eyes grow large and shiny with sympathy. Either that, or it's the dry air.

"Lucca…"

"Sorry," I mutter, dashing away a bit of moisture at the corner of my eye.

From the dry air, of course. I'm _not_ crying again.

"Don't apologize," Marle says gently, already moving to enclose me in a comforting hug. "If you need to cry, I'm here to cry with you."

"You sound like a sappy song about the joys of friendship," I inform her coolly, nevertheless moving towards her and allowing myself to be enclosed in a fuzzy pink embrace.

That sweater of hers is truly awful. It looks like someone mutilated a – pink – sheep.

But her slightly troublesome fashion sense aside, I am once again struck by just how lucky I am to have someone like her – her and Crono – to help me deal with this. Even if they don't have the time for it, they _make_ the time.

That means a lot.

God, now I sound like a bad sappy song.

I think that sweater is catching, which is why I'm perfectly willing at this point to spend the rest of the afternoon – hell, the rest of my life, if you want the truth – being hugged by a perky Guardian ruler in a godawful pink monstrosity that some sick person called a garment.

However, it doesn't seem as though this will be my fate.

"Now that I've got you here, Lucca," a terrifyingly ominous motherly voice says coolly from the door, "maybe you can tell me what on earth is going on."

Great.

Now I'm pinned between the two most terrifying females currently alive (not counting me, of course, and metaphorically rather than literally, since Mom hasn't joined the group-hug yet).

Do I stand a chance?

The correct answer, by the way, is 'no'.

====================================================================

End Notes: Yeah! It's the Pointless Girl-Bonding Chapter! Groan…I'm sorry about this. I kept meaning for something else to happen, but these two got so long-winded that it became a chapter on its own. Not that Girl-Bonding is a bad thing, but I did NOT mean for it to encompass the entire chapter.

Still, hope it was somewhat entertaining, and I shall endeavour to have another chapter up soon, in which stuff will happen.

Thanks!


End file.
